


Aftermath

by sailtheplains



Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game), Roll Like a Girl (Podcast), TableTop Champions (Podcast), Tabletop Champions
Genre: Bahamut - Freeform, Cam's mom is a bitch, Chaotic Good, Dungeons & Dragons 5th Edition, F/M, Gen, Irulan, Jazirian, Kallas for Demon King 2020, Kri'zakth, Lawful Good, Naluri, Neutral Good, Podcast, Raven Queen - Freeform, Shadowfell, The Traveler - Freeform, chaotic neutral, lawful neutral, the mushrooms hit, true neutral - Freeform, yuck your yums
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-17
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-02-07 16:24:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 25
Words: 91,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21461014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sailtheplains/pseuds/sailtheplains
Summary: I just wanted to write about some character moments and snippets because I like that kind of thing. Ididtake some liberties with the details because I don't actually know any of the Super Secrets of the plot from the podcast. Just a nerdy listener that really likes stories.--------------------------------“Someone betrayed us,” Cam reminded them. “Us includes Corvino.”Fucking hell, hopefully, anyway.He didn’t really want to think that Corvino had masterminded all this shit. Dagna seemed truly fond of him, despite his creepy behavior. Besides, really, it could have been any of them. This demon shit had made a hand come out of Cyrus’ mouth and kill a fucking drow. That had shaken all of them. (And probably left a bad taste in Cyrus’ mouth, not that Cam had asked.)
Relationships: Cam/Dagna, Cyrus and Boone, Gregor/Boone, Kallas and Brenna
Comments: 17
Kudos: 16





	1. Mourning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Link to the podcast: https://tabletopchamps.simplecast.com/episodes/145
> 
> Season 4 starts on episode 145, this snippet takes place immediately after 184, the final episode--since we didn't really know what happened until 3 months after I started this)
> 
> I like music when I write: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=70VlAyEUXYM&list=PLQuOKHNudkme1sVll54ZiyEMGlFCp0bmO&index=1  
\----------------------------------------

It ripped Asmodeus through the rift and he was gone. 

The silence was thunderous in the vacuum that followed.

Cam stood stunned and hushed, cleaner and fiercer-looking than he’d ever been. He’d finally been ready to face them. Face _her_ and then that bitch just turned around and walked away. Leaving him and Gregor— 

Cam spun to his left and sprinted to the man, now lying on his back. “Greg? Gregor?” He went down on his knees, hesitating (because he suspected he knew what he was about to find) and then forcing himself forward anyway, pulling the helm from his brother’s face. 

It was still Gregor and yet, it was not. His skin was swollen and purple, damp with sweat or puss and his eyes were bloodless white and runny. He smelled like _rot._ Gregor had once been proud and handsome and strong. But after the betrothal, well, shit went bad. It would have been easier if the man in the armor hadn’t been Gregor at all. _I suppose he isn't. Just a rotten bag of meat, right?_ But now it was left to Cam and if his mother was going to be a bitch, than he would have to pick up the slack _again._

Fuck, Cam fucking hated all these assholes. But he took out his dagger, tried one more time to see some sort of recognition in his brother’s face. But there was nothing, so Cam’s dark eyes flicked up to Gregor’s hairline and he slid his dagger under his brother’s ear, severing the artery. The bag of meat with his brother's mangled face gurgled as he bled out, quiet and quick. At least for that. Quiet and quick. 

The young man stood, closing his eyes to breathe and steady himself before he turned to see Boone holding Cyrus to herself. All that remained were the tattered wings, coming apart in tufts and loose feathers all around her. 

“Fuck, fuck,” Boone was muttering. “Fuck—this is—fuck! _Fuck!_ I didn’t want this, I didn’t want it to be like _this!”_

Dagna, who was kneeling with Boone, looking weepy, connected her gaze to Cam’s. She looked down at Cyrus’ magnificent wings and shook her head. 

“And fucking Kallas, why would he _do_ that?!” Boone drug her fingers hard through her hair. “He should have told us what the contract was! We could have helped or planned ahead or maybe tricked them! He just _threw_ his life away!”

“No, Boone,” Dagna managed softly. “That's not—“

“I was supposed to die! Twice—no, fucking _three_ times! And now Kallas is….a prisoner of that devil? He’s going to be taken and tortured because of _me!_ How the fuck do we even get him back! We _have_ to get him back! We—!”

“Boone!” Dagna cut in, louder. “He made his choice. He clearly thought you were worth it.”

“But…b-but….if Cyrus had killed me. Or if Kallas had killed me….they both would be alive. I was so awful to them sometimes.” Boone looked down at her blue-tinted fingers, shaking. The teenager felt like she was collapsing in on herself. Every sharp, suspicious word flew back into her mind, staring down into the ash and his halberd. His sacrifice to protect _her...._

Cam took a knee next to the women. He looked down at the mangled wings of Cyrus. The young lord pulled his fingers through the white ash that dusted a five foot radius around Boone and curled it up into his palm. Maybe Cyrus had known? Maybe after the creepy painting of killing Boone, Cyrus had suspected that this would happen? 

Of Kallas, nothing remained. Dagna went to stand where his boots had last rested on the mortal plane. Ripped away to be tortured because he refused to kill Boone. Presumably because she was inhabited by some kind of aspect of Jazirian? Seriously, what the _hell_ was going on? They had to save Kallas. Cyrus might be lost forever to them but Kallas’ soul should still exist. Dagna curled her fists, digging her fingernails into her flesh. 

“Let’s go,” Cam told them. “We can’t do anything more here.”

“What about your mother, Cam?” Dagna asked gently, eyes downcast as she then took a deep breath and returned to Boone. Cyrus’ halberd was lying next to her on the ground. 

Cam picked up the weapon, flipping it under his arm. His gear was still resplendent and clean, looking every inch (for the first time, probably) the Lord Steward of House Macwell. He had absolutely intended for this to be a final showdown with his family. But then his mother ran off because apparently _she_ had something to do with _this_ shit too. “Bitch is gone for now. I imagine she’ll come find us again.” He scowled. “C’mon. Let’s go. Fuck this place. And fuck Jildos.”

Boone scooped up as many of the feathers as she could. Dagna unfurled the magic carpet and they boarded. They sped above the city, now mostly in smoking ruins. But the sounds of combat had stopped. It seemed that, for the moment, the devil was gone. Taken by whatever that big fucking elfspider was supposed to be. Boone felt a little nauseated as she just stared down at the carpet, bundling all the feathers to her in her cloak and realizing they smelled like canvas….

_I was supposed to trust him. But I didn’t even try. All I did was argue with him._

“Can you drop me off where we came through with Kibs?” Boone said to the carpet, dark hair hanging over her face. The place he learned to paint. The place where he had killed her, supposedly. Had he also revived her? They hadn’t figured out enough to know. And now, she may never. 

She felt Dagna look at her but it was Cam who managed a gruff: “Yeah.” And Boone felt the carpet redirect. When they stopped, the paladin got up and stepped away, heading for the cliff's edge. Cam turned away as well, hopping off the carpet and stalking the opposite direction into the woods like a caged wolf. 

Dagna stayed, for it suddenly felt correct to dig around in her pack for incense while Boone knelt on that very cliff-side they’d come to barely a day before. Barely a—

_(Flashes in the dark, blue light and stars so bright that everything was blurring together)_

The feathers were taken by the wind. All but one. It stayed, precariously perched on the edge of the stone. Boone frowned at it and scowled. “I wasn’t worth this.” She barely knew anything about either of them but both had just given their lives for her without a moment's hesitation... 

_“Fuck…”_ This time the word choked on a sob and Boone sat down on the edge, balling her fists up in her eyes and shaking. 

Dagna lit the incense and then walked away to let Boone mourn. The bard was still reeling from all the death, Kallas and Cyrus, and also Corvino’s sudden and very violent end. _How did they find us? It doesn’t make any sense._

She could see Cam setting up a regular camp. He did not look at her. Part of Dagna wanted very much to just go to sleep, to just try and think, process everything that had happened on this horrible night. But she grabbed tinder and scrub to help build a fire. “No cabin tonight?” 

Cam turned back to the now-crackling little blaze and hunkered down on a stump next to the bard. He pulled out the tiny cabin. “Every time we use this damn thing, someone finds us.” He offered it out to her. “If you want it, you can. But I don’t trust it anymore. I know your buddy Tribek gave it to us but still.”

Dagna shook her head at it. “I don’t know what to think anymore.” She cupped her elbows and looked at the fire. “I, uh….Corvino was….kind of silly sometimes. But he was my friend.”

“He was in love with you,” Cam said, narrowing his eyes at the fire, voice flat and hard. “And it seems like someone used him to find you. And who was it that knew Corvino loved you and that you were with us? Tribek.”

Dagna closed her eyes and squeezed them. She wanted to speak, to deny that. But the longer it hung between them, the more likely it seemed in her brain. _No,_ Tribek was her friend. But if someone _had_ used Corvino, than his death had been arbitrary. And her fault. She should have been more firm with him. If she’d been more direct, or if she’d even hurt his feelings—he might be alive right now. 

Everything in Dagna shuddered like an earthquake, her shoulders curled in and she looked away from Cam. Her eyes were welling up, despite her best efforts. It—

And then the bard heard a sigh and an arm suddenly wrapped around her shoulders. She found her nose pulling in the scent of cherry pipe tobacco, crispy magic and wool from Cam’s starched sleeve. Dag was still for a moment, as if afraid he might suddenly change his mind. When he didn’t, she relaxed a little, turning into him just a touch. Her tears were mostly silent.

Cam did not look at her either. He had limited tears in him for his poor brother and had shed them twice over now. He mostly felt numb. Numb and angry. That smoldering anger made him want to shake someone, _hurt_ someone. So instead he tightened his arm around Dagna and buried his eyes in her hair while she silently wept into his shirt. 

\--------------------------------------------


	2. Feather

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a snippet about Cyrus remembering Boone's first demise.
> 
> Through the desert: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FEHl_JvFYfg  
\-------------------
> 
> Everything felt strange, slow and surreal. Like he were dreaming and yet, Cyrus was fairly certain he wasn’t. The girl was beautiful. Dark raven hair and pale snowy skin, like the Raven Queen in the flesh. Cyrus did not know her and for the life of him, he could not recall _why_ he was here.  
\------------------

The room was black. Perhaps a magical darkness because she definitely couldn’t perceive anything beyond the five foot glow of light in front of her. Just beyond the edge of that light, opposite of her chair, sat an easel. 

Boone stared at it. There was a stretch of square canvas on the easel but it faced away from her. It was covered in a black sheet. She was sitting in a simple wooden chair, as if posing for a portrait. The paladin couldn’t move. Her legs and arms and head felt too heavy to shift, to move or even look. 

_Trust him._

And then Boone saw a shimmer from the dark and a glowing silver eye.

“Cyrus?” Boone whispered. But she couldn’t hear her own voice. The soldier was not looking at her. He came out of the dark in front of the easel. He stared at it, his silver eye and his blue eye both fixed on the sheet-covered canvas. 

“Cyrus!” Boone tried again to speak but nothing happened. He did not appear to hear her. She watched Cyrus reach up and skim his fingers over the black silk. “Cyrus, don’t!” Something about the canvas. He shouldn’t look at the canvas. He shouldn’t even touch it. He shouldn’t even _touch it!_ Boone felt this so deeply, so _surely_ that she began to struggle. “Cyrus! Cyrus! Don’t touch it! Don’t touch it!”

Still, the soldier did not seem to hear her. He traced his callused fingers over the black fabric and then snatched it in his fist. Boone fought the heaviness in her limbs, fighting to breathe, to just get a word out, a warning, fucking _anything!_

And then Cyrus looked right at her. His silver eye turned red.

A sharp flash of heat marred her hand but _his_ was spilling blood—

Boone tensed awake. She did not move an inch, just her eyes, glancing around quickly to ensure she was awake. Cyrus’ halberd was lying next to her bedroll. The paladin peered at it and then grabbed it. The heat zapped through her hand again and Boone froze but no damage was done. She sat up. The halberd had an odd sheen to the blade that Boone was not certain she’d ever noticed before. 

“Funny how that thing remained, huh? I mean, it’s not a spirit weapon but he could summon it. Took all his damn gear but not the halberd.” Cam was sitting at the campfire, roasting a brace of rabbits and smoking from a long-stemmed wooden pipe. 

Boone stood up and flipped the halberd to stand it up. “It looks different now. The blade is…I dunno…darkish?”

Cam glanced at her and then at the blade. “Well, maybe you should hang on to it. Just in case, y’know?”

“Tch, in case what? He’s not here in case I fucking die again.”

Cam snorted. “You never know.” He shrugged. “I mean, he ain’t here to kill you, right?”

Boone flinched, looking at the fire instead. “I’ve never used a halberd.”

“No time to learn like the present,” Cam replied, pulling the rabbits off the makeshift spit and laying them out on a large stone before standing up and walking around the fire to kneel by Dagna and put a hand on her arm for a careful nudge. “Hey, O’Leeroy, got some breakfast.” Cam gestured to Boone. “Get your cup out and eat something.”

“What are we going to do, Cam?” Boone asked instead. She studied the rabbit but she really didn’t want to eat. 

“We’re gonna eat breakfast,” he told her.

“Fucking—I mean about Kallas and Cyrus!”

“Same answer. One thing at a time.” Cam took a deep breath, running his fingers through his tangled black hair before pulling it back into a tail and looping the leather throng around to hold it. 

Dagna got up, rubbing her eyes. They were still red-rimmed and tired. “We probably won’t be wanted around Jildos for a while.”

“Fuck Jildos,” Boone muttered, almost reflexively. 

“Where can we find a cleric? One powerful enough to try to contact him? Them? Either. Or help you for that matter. You got that whole Jazirian inside of you or something, right?” Cam bit down on the stem of his pipe.

“Didn’t do a whole lot of good,” Boone grumbled. And then she closed her eyes and sighed. “I mean, I don’t have any other ideas. I’m sorry.”

Cam waved a hand in dismissal. “But before we do that—we should talk about Tribek.”

“Tribek?” Boone looked at Dagna but the bard was just looking down miserably at the rabbits.

Cam followed her eyes to Dagna and, to his credit, looked apologetic. “Look, we don’t wanna consider that he might have betrayed us but at this point, we need to look at our options. Remember Ebreosea and how he just happened to send a letter, like, three hours after we left. Instead of right away. And then that assassin showed up _in_ the damn cells and said he was there for _all_ of us? Tribek was the only one who knew you went with us, Dag.”

“Unless Corvino faked his own death and it was him the whole damn time,” Boone grumbled.

Dagna stiffened and threw a glare at the girl. “Corvino did _not_ betray me.” 

Boone looked away.

“Someone betrayed _us,”_ Cam reminded them. “Us includes Corvino.” _Fucking hell, hopefully, anyway._ He didn’t really want to think that Corvino had masterminded all this shit. Dagna seemed truly fond of him, despite his creepy behavior. Besides, really, it could have been any of them. This devil shit had made a _hand_ come out of Cyrus’ mouth and kill a fucking drow. _That_ had shaken all of them. (And probably left a bad taste in Cyrus’ mouth, not that Cam had asked.) 

Impersonating people with magic wasn’t all that difficult either. Sure, it could have been Dagna too. But….somehow that was even harder to imagine than Corvino. Cam had actually come to respect the musical professor, maybe even liked how she stuck to her guts even if no one else was on her side. That stubbornness rather reminded him of himself, just a little bit different. Cam mentally shook such thoughts away, now was not the time. 

“Ghost Butler was taken from the cabin that, supposedly, no one could enter. The only time we saw threads like that again, was in the drow city,” Boone said quietly. 

“But then why take him? Why not attack _us?_ We would never have expected it,” Cam mused. “Unless it was just to push us to go down there quicker.”

“And it only took Brenna _after_ it killed her. It ripped her soul out. It likely could not have gotten all of us without one of us figuring out how it got in,” Boone added. For no reason at all, she got a creepy chill up her spine that made her glance around the camp. That silk-covered easel flashed through her mind and then she felt a _tug._

It was as if her inside pocket on her right hip gave a sudden lurch. Boone froze, stiffening up and looking down at her pocket. 

“What?” Dagna asked, studying her face and standing up. 

“Boone?” Cam pressed, circling the girl’s other side. 

“Something is in my pocket that wasn’t there just now,” Boone said it in a rush and then pushed her cloak back before sliding her fingers into the pocket of her trousers. But there was nothing heavy or solid, just what felt like a slender stick. Boone drew it out.

A magnificent feather followed, leaving shimmers of sparkling dust in the early morning sunlight. All three of them stared at it. Dagna got as close as she could while Boone held it up but did not quite dare to touch it. “Is that…”

“Cyrus…” Boone murmured, using her thumb to cascade the silken fibers. 

“Didn’t you lose those feathers over the cliff last night?” Cam asked her pointedly, eyeing the feather with suspicion.

The paladin looked reflexively to that edge, where the wind had definitely taken even the lonely last one. Boone looked back at Dagna and Cam. Suddenly, it was hard to breathe. She felt like she were trembling inside and out. Cam reached her before her legs collapsed and he gently supported her as he knelt down on the grass with her. Dagna knelt next to them, sliding an arm around Boone. She clutched at the feather, bowing her head over it. 

Cyrus stared down at the sleeping girl. _What am I doing here?_

Everything felt strange, slow and surreal. Like he were dreaming and yet, Cyrus was fairly certain he wasn’t. The girl was beautiful. Dark raven hair and pale snowy skin, like the Raven Queen in the flesh. Cyrus did not know her and for the life of him, he could not recall _why_ he was here. Certainly, she hadn’t invited him to the Macwell estate. How the hell had he even gotten in here, now that he was thinking about it—

And then he drew his dagger. Cyrus stiffened and tried to speak, to either wake her or stop himself. But he couldn’t seem to, he was—what was—

Cyrus pulled her blanket back. No, wait—what was happening? Why was he moving the sheet—he shouldn’t be _in_ here. She was betrothed to one of the Macwell sons. He’d heard the rumors. Her death would incite war for certain. He should _not_ be in the guest quarters of such a mighty house, what was he _doing_ here—

Cyrus wanted to _struggle,_ to fight, but he felt like he were moving through molasses. Yet, he also moved with such certainty, just as he’d been trained. When he saw her lovely eyes flutter open, Cyrus pushed down on her collarbones to hold her and _ripped_ the dagger across—

Cyrus kept trying, kept _trying_ to pull away, to struggle, to yell—someone! Couldn’t someone appear and stop him! Please, someone! Anyone! Stop! Stop him!

_Stop me! Please!_

But no one did. Cyrus drug the knife across her throat and watched her eyes, first fierce and angry…and then become indigo dim. Methodically, he saw himself wrapping her in her soaked sheets. Blood was slathered on his hands by the time he put the bundle over his shoulder. And all he could think was—_What the fuck is going on! No! No! No! Someone! Anyone! Kill me! Stop me!_

Sure, alerting any of the Macwells would get him immediately killed but the girl was no one to him! She was innocent! What the fuck was—

And then he was standing on the cliffs where he learned to paint. When he looked up, there were no stars at all, no visible moon to see. It felt unnatural to him. And he also could not recall how he’d gotten there. 

Something important, Cyrus was certain. But the harder he racked his brain to remember, the more it seemed to slip away. There was a….a fight, correct? A battle? He ran. He ran? A tiny voice seemed to echo the question in him, after all—could he truly have dishonored his house so easily—yes. Yes. _I am a coward and a traitor._ He was a coward and he _ran._

_You ran._


	3. Rage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> music: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lWDYAJ2-Y1E&list=PLQuOKHNudkme-P2XykOQOMLhdu_WjLR7A&index=21&t=0s  
\--------------------------
> 
> For a weird moment, Dagna and Boone disappeared. Cam didn’t see them. He saw an old man, spitting and cursing, who looked like he’d been poisoned as well. He saw a woman dressed in silks and gems and leathers like a pirate, screaming with incoherent rage—
> 
> And then Boone grabbed his other arm. “Cam!”  
\----------------------------

The tavern was called the Gravity Hearth. The outside was brightly painted with swirls of color and a knobby sign was limping back and forth in the wind on a post. The three of them were water-logged and tired. Worn down brittle-thin and feeling very small and alone, when Dagna saw the lanterns she pointed and the other two nodded. They all needed time, perhaps. 

Boone was wrapped up in her cloak like a beggar, hiding the enchanted sword. The feather now resided in an inner pocket of Boone’s cloak. It still shimmered when waved about and cast a faint pale light in the dark. Otherwise, it seemed an ordinary white feather. It was odd all the same and no one really trusted enchanted objects after that awful dagger had apparently possessed poor Cyrus. That had been when their friend, Brenna, was still alive. 

Dagna had felt that empty place as soon as she arrived. The first time in the Cabin, they’d all looked at the gnome’s pile of furs and Dagna felt every bit the outsider. Whoever Brenna was, she was important, kind and fierce and beloved to her friends. She had been with Kallas from the beginning. _Oh, poor Kallas._ His last words to Boone, _save Brenna,_ and he had simply accepted his fate. No pleading, no running. Kallas had stood his ground and looked his death in the eye. Dagna had known a great many warriors in her time and not many could have done what Kallas had done. And with such stalwart calm nobility. It encapsulated him in every way, she supposed. _He would make a good song._ After all, what was sung, lived forever, right? A brave and lordly teifling, determined to save his halfling friend, meets his fate with fisted hands to beat the king of death, at last. Or something. 

Dagna led the way into the tavern, resolving to workshop the ballad. Boone still didn’t seem to want to talk much. Her eyes were downcast under her hood, hiding behind her hair. That was all right, each of them had to cope in their own way. Dagna touched her shoulder and nodded for Boone to follow Cam as he staked their claim on a back table with long benches. The young man pulled down his hood and glanced around the room: the shadowy back wall was about ten paces behind them, with some barrels and sacks likely belonging to the tavern as well as two closed windows. The second floor above them was a railed mezzanine, where there were rooms and fewer, more private tables. Boone pulled a candle from an empty place next to them.

Dagna ordered them food, hot spiced wine and rooms, then meandered among the smaller tables to reach her friends. Boone was sitting at the short edge of the table in a separate chair so that she would not have her neck to the common room or to the back windows. Cam sat on the back bench and was in the process of packing his pipe when he noticed Dagna snaking her way towards them. He stood up, taking the mugs for her as Dagna put the urn of wine down and tapped the table in front of Boone. "Everyone try a little. Might help warm us up, right?"

Boone nodded, silently accepting her mug with downcast eyes. Cam gestured to help the serving girl who approached with bowls of stew and chunks of bread. "There we go. Good for rainy nights. Thank you, miss. And, when you have a moment, we'll probably need a second urn of this wine, if you have more." Cam flipped the girl a coin and then pulled the hearty bowl in front of Boone. "C'mon, waste not or whatever. You're obligated to eat this because Dagna just bought it."

Boone knew she should eat. It made sense. Her body just felt...grieved. Everything heavy, rigid and tense and trembling like the rumbles after an earthquake. Her throat still had a lump in it and she did not trust her voice. She kept replaying those moments in her head: Kallas slipping up on her like a shadow, like only rogues could. The tiefling might have ended it right there. Kallas might not have been as broad as Cyrus or as flashy as Cam but when he found his puzzle, Kallas _placed_ his piece. One _stab..._but he didn't. And when the _hands_ latched onto him, she could only cry out in stunned _horror._ But his eyes narrowed and he braced himself, as if to prepare for some feat of will and then the emptiness when his neck snapped. _And I couldn't do anything to help him._ And then so immediately after, the _acceptance_ in Cyrus' mismatched eyes...

Boone nodded again, sitting up and taking a deep breath to steady herself.

Dagna and Cam exchanged somber looks as the bard took out her travel journal and a charcoal pencil. She sat down on the bench to Cam's left. Dagna did have to idly wonder again, how long had these two known each other? Both had been scanty on details and the topic seemed to be the start of a lot of _terrible_ events. The bard still wasn’t entirely certain what the age difference was between the Macwell sons. But the implication had been of a betrothal and Boone had very stubbornly refused to talk about her family at all. Dagna looked back at the parchment and sighed. It seemed like the more they hid from each other, the worse things got. 

Cam went back to his pipe and contemplated the thick urn of hot wine sitting on the table. His head was throbbing. His dreams last night had been bad. Very very bad. It might be beneficial to just try to sleep somewhere safe. If he didn’t see Gregor’s face melt off or constantly hear sounds that were reminiscent of pigs being butchered, or _hands_ pulling him down into the floor maybe he’d be all right. 

There was someone playing a sitar by a massive hearth that took up almost one entire wall. A brown-haired blind woman, who looked to be human, brown as a nut, was sitting on a tall chair with her bare toes just skimming the wooden planks of the floor. Her eyes were green at one time, perhaps, but now they were cloudy pale. She wore some sort of brocade green robe, tied with a wide, golden sash embroidered with green leaves. She looked ghostly in front of the fire. A lot of people sitting at the tables looked like they might have come from a battle or a destroyed city, Cam noticed. A lot of people with injuries, who looked tired, sad and dirty, rather like them. The crowd was not as boisterous as it might normally be. So the player soothingly strummed her sitar, staring around the tavern with her empty eyes. Always listening, right? That’s what blind people were creepy at, right? “So, how do blind bards learn to play music?”

“With their fingers and ears,” Boone replied, tone flat. She took a nibble of her bread though.

Dagna, sitting next to Cam on the bench, marked out a word on her parchment and wrote another before glancing around the tavern. “Was that a set-up for a joke or an actual question?” 

Cam got a crooked smile—

But Dagna’s face contorted to alarm. “Cam!” And the bard was throwing the bench back, grabbing the edge of the table and flipping it _up—_

Two crossbow bolts slammed into the tabletop instead of Cam’s neck and chest. He threw himself backwards and off the bench. Boone was on her feet, her sword flashed out in an arc of glimmering silver and another arrow shattered about ten inches from her face. Two bolts slammed into the barkeep. The bard by the fireplace was suddenly gone, her sitar lying on the floor. Three other patrons dropped, two more suddenly went into convulsions. The candles situated along the bar went out and then—

“There! It’s a damn drow!” Boone pointed with her shimmering sword. A shadow flickered out from behind the bar, illuminated by flames for a bare moment. The drow appeared male. He roared out when he made eye contact with Boone. But in her head, the paladin heard:

_(“We require Mortal God blood!”)_

And then an arrow slammed into the drow’s temple, chunks of bone spattering from the opposite side. The cook was leaning in the kitchen doorway with a crossbow. Cam dodged out from behind the table, grabbed the chair next to him and flung it at a second drow that had materialized by the sideboard. It clobbered him and Dagna sprung out at nearly the same instant. She snatched the drow with her magic. She clenched her fist tightly in the air to hold it and then Boone bolted, dashing to the drow. It was poetic, in gruesome sort of way, watching Boone raise her sword and _slam_ down. The skull caved instantly. Boone kicked the body off her sword, blood licked the ceiling rafters.

Cam heard a yell and whirled around, tensing for another attack. But the sound came from above, a scuffle on the mezzanine was audible for just a moment and then there was a heavy _thump_ and another drow fell lifeless over the banister railing. 

“What the hell was that?! Is everyone all right?” Boone was looking around the tavern at large. “How many were there total—“

Apparently, one more. This drow suddenly dropped from the shadows, directly behind Dagna and _stabbed_ with his right hand, raising a hand-crossbow in his left and pointing it a hairsbreadth from Cam’s eye. He looked down the arrowhead, perfectly straight lines of black steel. _No, not again._

Dagna cried out, spine stiffening like a bow and blood spreading in a heavy stain from her lower back. The poison gripped the bard instantly and she tottered, cursing and disoriented. Dagna collapsed to her knees, trying to use her rapier to hold herself up.

Cam had no clear thoughts after that. He simply _moved._ He grabbed the drow’s bow arm, yanked the man into him and punched into the drow's ribs with his dagger. Cam felt it enter heavy flesh four or five times before the drow dodged back, the dagger now sticking out of his gut. _Trying to get away? Oh no, no. No getting away this time._

The drow almost slipped through his fingers before Cam drove his fist into one of the knife wounds. He felt the drow shudder, locking up around him. _Gotcha._ Cam grabbed the assassin by the throat, slammed him into the tavern floor and snatched up the toppled wine urn. Cam smashed it into the drow’s face, once, twice, before it shattered, grinding ceramic through his cheek. But he didn’t stop. Cam just _acted._ And something bottled up, perhaps, flashed out when he grabbed onto the drow’s face. _Not them too. No one gets away._ Kneeling on his chest, glaring down into the dark elf's blood-red eyes, the sorcerer _inflicted_ upon him. 

It shrieked piteously. Still, Cam did not stop. He didn’t even seem to hear it. The entire tavern had gone totally silent but all the blood was _roaring_ passed Cam’s ears. The eyes _decomposed_ to liquid and the drow struggled, howling in agonized screaming. The tissue of its face _rotted_ and the flesh split around the cheekbones, the blood blistered. 

_(”Cam!”)_

His hands clamped around the throat instead, squeezing, watching the blackening mold spread from his fingers to the drow. It wailed again, _("A screaming bag of meat.")_ or tried to. Cam didn’t really hear it. He…couldn’t really hear anything. All he could feel was the drow’s flesh corroding inward the harder his fingers dug into the throat, the more the necrosis _ate him_

Boone raced back to Dagna, skidding to her knees and turning the human towards her. She laid her hand on the wound to close it, digging out the potion that Dagna herself had given Boone. All at once, the barbarian princess stopped spitting and struggling, gasping for breath as her body recovered. The bard struggled to her knees, Boone slid an arm around her.

The drow gurgled. But Cam paid it no mind until the windpipe tore itself out. The weight of the skull made it flop back, tearing the weakened flesh of its neck as the head detached completely. It fell to the tavern floor with a soft, but clearly audible _thunk._ His amber-hazel eyes were wide and empty, breathing quick and shaky. 

“Cam?” Dagna said, reaching for his arm. He _flinched_ away when she touched him, eyes darting up at her under his blood-spattered black hair. 

For a weird moment, Dagna and Boone disappeared. Cam didn’t see them. He saw an old man, spitting and cursing, who looked like he’d been poisoned as well. He saw a blue woman, but not like Boone was blue. Different. She was dressed in silks and gems and leathers like a pirate, screaming with incoherent rage—

Boone grabbed his other arm and shook him. “Cam!”

And then the world _slammed_ back into focus. The old man and the pirate were gone. He dropped the dead drow on the floor and slumped back against one of the support posts. His hands were icy cold and he felt like he was shaking inside. Cam rubbed his hand down his face. Boone and Dagna were both kneeling in on the floor in front of him, just staring at him.

“Cam…are you okay?” Dagna managed softly.

The disheveled young man looked at his hands, which were covered in brackish blood and bits of tissue from the drow's pulped throat. He felt a little disconnected, dizzy, even. Like he wasn’t entirely certain what had just occurred. He’d not reacted with such _rage_ before. It was….

Dagna took his hand, trying to look into his eyes. “Cam?”

“Hallo.”

The three of them all looked up to see the blind player. Her cloudy eyes drifted over the trio before she smiled faintly. “And hallo to you too,” she added, reaching out a spindly finger over Boone’s shoulder and skimming it along the shiny darksilver flat of the halberd and the dulled gem affixed to it. 

Boone jerked back from the woman, reflexively touching the halberd’s grip. 

Dagna’s eyes flashed, darkening with suspicion. She dropped Cam’s hand and got up, stepping between him and the woman. She appeared human, smallish, clearly acquainted with magic. Perhaps she was some sort of halfling? “Who are you?”

The girl’s blind eyes made their way to the silver panflute pin on Dagna’s collar. “I am Thioni. Those people were here to kill you.”

“You got something to do with that?” Cam growled and pushed himself to his feet, idly brushing his hands on his gear. 

“They listened to my songs but cannot feel them anymore. Their heads are already too full inside,” Thioni told them.

Cam lifted an eyebrow but did not look convinced. So instead he grabbed Dagna’s shoulder to look at her back, running his palm down her spine. “I totally fucking missed that guy, Dag. You okay?” Like when his mother had spell-trapped that sword. Fuck. He’d felt a similar rage right then but this time was…_more._ Just more. With the sword, he’d run to Dagna and dumped that potion down her throat, held her until she came around again. Thank fuck he'd given it to her. But this time…it hadn’t even occurred to him. He’d attacked first, instead. Granted, there was no one he could attack when the spell-trapped sword almost killed her but he still felt a little weird about it.

“I healed her,” Boone told him, still eyeing Thioni. 

An entirely unintentional shiver went up Dagna's spine when Cam touched her but she kept peering at the sitar player. “Where did you train? Are you a bard?”

The blind player appeared thoughtful. “No. I don’t think I ever was.” The strange woman’s smile turned gentler. “You are though. You know so many songs. In your head and out.”

Boone blinked _hard_ at the young woman, pulling back to examine the player like she wasn’t sure what she was looking at. There was _definitely_ magic all around her. But not a bound spirit or demon. Not the cold creeping sense of the Undead (Cyrus), not the fiery stony soot of the Fiend, nor the buzzing, vibrant warmth of a celestial. And yet...something that Boone was almost certain she had sensed before, a _tangible_ sort of feeling, like an elemental but not. It made her mouth taste like damp stone, the air during a storm, electric, _earthy._ She racked her brain, anything that the Temple might have mentioned, even in passing...

Someone was sobbing at the bar counter as patrons and wait staff began to check on each other. Boone helped to stabilize the barkeep before he died in a frothing mess. A wily wizard cast a barrier inside the tavern to seal it and the whole building was searched top to bottom. No other drow were discovered and all the food and drink had to be checked for poison, the drows’ weapon of choice. Four casks of the Hearth's best wine had to be dumped. Thankfully, it hadn't been theirs. The tables were pushed against the walls and the barkeep let those without rooms throw down bedrolls to recover their nerves and constitutions. 

Part of Cam wanted very much to leave. He definitely didn’t trust the place. He wanted to sleep outside again. Fuck, people problems were literally the worst. But that would also mean exposing Boone and Dagna, either out in the forests with drow combing the area for them, or leaving them in the tavern to possibly be attacked. Not that his presence was likely to ward off hired knives but three had better chances than two (or one, if he were attacked outside instead, which seemed very likely). They were all exhausted and brittle from battle, from grief, from loss. Kallas and Cyrus, Corvino, Gregor and his mother, and they were no closer to figuring out how to get Brenna’s soul back. 

_(“Save Brenna.”)_

Boone looked through her spell notes before she and the wizard warded the inside of the building to wake them and the barkeep if someone entered the establishment. The odd player went back to her chair by the fire, gently checking her sitar before plucking a few chords. “A noble tiefling lad with a quick thief’s cant, traveled to and fro to find a halfling’s hat, and when he put it on, old Asmodeus cried, _Sacrifice for your friend, so I take what’s mine!”_ Thioni seemed to think on the verse. “Lots of people here were in Jildos recently,” she said, seeming to feel Boone’s icy glare. “It makes the deep-dark, darker. Like Jildos.”

“Fuck Jildos,” one of the patrons spit in the fire.

Boone and Dagna exchanged a suspicious glance. Cam looked away, stooping to loot the pockets of the fallen drow.

The three decided to camp out in the largest of their rooms, only using one, a corner room with one window on the far wall. Boone stood the halberd up by the door. The silver curve of the blade reflected their candles. She studied it, as if checking to see if the player had left fingerprints on it. But the surface was glassy smooth, still oddly matte grey and darker than when Cyrus had carried it. The gem was cloudy. _Weird._ Absently, Boone touched the feather through her cloak.

Cam drug the bed out of line of sight from the window and jammed it in front of the door so no one could enter. “You or Boone take the bed,” he told Dagna. “I’d be sleeping outside if it were just me. So I’ll sleep by the window. Someone comes in that way, they’re gonna be in for more than they bargained for.”

“C’mon Boone, it’s big enough for both of us.”

Something tickled his nose. That was what woke him. Otherwise, Kallas was not entirely certain he would even be awake. He should be dead, right? He remembered looking at Boone, telling her to _save Brenna._ He remembered Cam's horrified expression, Dagna's rage, Cyrus crying out, when the hands wrapped around him. Grabbing into him, laying _ownership_ upon him, _dragging_ him down into the deep. But now? Kallas seemed to be lying on a slab made of stone, like a bench.

_"You are dead, my friend."_

The tiefling tensed and there, at the foot of the stone slab, was a tall, dark woman. Luminescent dark skin, black hair, blacker feathers, glowing eyes. Ravens clustered around the woman, who wore layered black leathers and gauzy black lace. A white, emotionless mask guarded her features.

_"You know me, friend."_

Kallas peered at her. “The Queen of Memories,” he heard himself say. Though he was not actually sure how he knew that. Wasn’t that another name for the Raven Queen? The Lady of the Dead?

_"Do you realize where you are?"_

Kallas glanced around, seeing only stone walls, ceilings and floors, and hundreds of identical stone slabs like the one he was sitting on now. The light was very dim, almost non-existent, the reflection of flame from somewhere else. The teifling could also hear distant screaming. He reached up gingerly and touched the side of his neck where he'd felt those _hands._ The skin felt unmarred. It sent a chill down his spine. “The Shadowfell.”

_"There is another I met like you. Souls stolen by the hungry god. But you are different still, aren’t you?"_ The woman still did not physically move but somehow Kallas became aware that she was looking at his chest. 

A small white feather was lying on the rotted remains of his armor, tucked under a belt strap across his chest. Kallas stopped still, reaching for it, sliding his thumb through the fibers. He wasn't sure how he knew then, just the bitter wave of finality that came over him when he touched the feather. “Cyrus is dead?”

Kallas got the impression that the woman was giving him a little smile. _"And I was his patron. Death is a funny thing. How many times did Cyrus die? Once for me. Once for you. Once within."_

The tiefling’s amber-gold eyes peered into the dark. The woman was still quietly observing him when he looked back. “I thought I would be going somewhere else."

_"As did He. You signed the contract and yet, you are here. Perhaps, there was something you had to do first?"_

Kallas studied the mask on the person. "I want to save my friend, Brenna.”

_"She is known to me."_

Kallas swung his legs over the stone slab. “Was she here?!”

_"She and many others. Find your memories of her. Avoid the hungry god. I could only disrupt His process. But I cannot hide you. The memories they have of you are too strong. Should He remember your name, He will find you."_

Kallas furrowed his eyebrows. “My name?”

_"A closely guarded secret to those wise enough. Names have power."_ The woman inclined her creepy mask in a short bow. _"Find Brenna."_

And then, the woman seemed to compress inward before bursting into shadowy feathers. And she was gone, leaving Kallas alone.


	4. Change

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lullaby of Woe: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ohNpf4VnlP8&list=PLQuOKHNudkme-P2XykOQOMLhdu_WjLR7A&index=41&t=0s
> 
> \----------------------  
“My choice was never,” he heard himself say to the raven. “I never wanted it.” _Wanted what?_
> 
> The raven leaned in. _"Many things in this world are never wanted. To only desire change when it is convenient is not change at all."_
> 
> \---------------------

Leopold fiddled with his ceramic cup, walking it across the serving tray before eyeing his elder brother. “So,” he said, attempting a casual air, “what do you think of her?”

Gregor was pretending to wipe some dust off the mantle over the fireplace. “Oh, well, I mean—she’s pretty.” He shrugged. “A little grouchy, I guess, but I can’t blame her. I mean, she’s even younger than you, Mac, probably more your speed. Though I imagine that three inch height difference would get to you eventually.” He gave Leopold a teasing grin. His younger brother flipped him off. “But she knows she’s basically being sold off by her parents. I’d be pissed off too, I guess.”

Leopold snorted. “You mean to think that Mother _isn’t_ selling you off?”

“Harder for her to get rid of the heir to the household. Father will be hounding for you to marry some pretty rich girl if I don’t have children by her quick enough. Choose wisely, there are only so many daughters among the other noble houses and you're about to become the most eligible bachelor in Jildos.”

Leo sneered at him. “So are you gonna have to do the pretend-date thing? Need me to make you a list of topics? Maybe steer away from: _how do you feel about indiscriminate murder if the price is right?_ You know, puts a damper on the romance.”

Gregor raised his eyebrows at him. “Hey, I don’t like it either, but it’s the foundation of the city. We can’t just destroy it overnight or we’ll end up getting taken over. Either by other houses or by Ebreosea or Cin Amon.”

The younger brother scowled down into his wine, so dark it was almost purple. “So what, we have to wait for our parents to die?”

Gregor sighed heavily. “Mac, I know you don’t like the direction of Jildos ("Fuck Jildos," Mac muttered.) but it’s all these people know. It’s how they know to survive. You call it slavery but plenty of the people among the noble houses would gladly fight to defend this system.”

“That’s because they don’t know shit else. It’s called _indoctrination.”_ He waved an imaginary banner through the air with his palm, stretching like a lanky cat in the cushioned oak chair in his brother's study.

“But if we’re going to show them—we can either introduce it gradually or fucking _burn everything to the ground._ Now which one do you think is more productive?”

Leopold rolled his eyes over the rim of his wine cup. 

“You could try to get to know her too, you know,” Gregor told him pointedly.

“Oh no, no. I don’t want anything to do with that. She’s your problem. You agreed to get married. Not me. I want nothing to do with it.”

Gregor sighed again. “I know the politics and shit is frustrating but we have to work within to get any real change, Mac.”

“You know that if Father has his way, I’ll probably be at a front line somewhere by the end of the year. Father will be paid a lot of gold to make sure I get fucking killed for nothing. And he’ll say it was to protect _you.”_

“Would you rather be killed _for_ something?”

Leopold did a double-take at his brother as he turned from the fireplace. “What? You mean besides money?”

Gregor peered at him intently. “Magic, sorcery, demons?”

Mac raised an eyebrow. “So a ritual?”

Gregor shifted, suddenly looking uncomfortable. The glow of the fireplace threw all the doubt in his eyes to contrast, hazel-amber, like his own. “Have you ever wondered what it would be like to be sacrificed?”

Leopold put his wine down, peering at the odd turn of his brother’s words. “Uh, not until right now, I guess. Why, have you?”

Gregor glanced back at him from the fire, eyes suddenly looking hollow. “My dreams have been dark lately, Mac. Spiders and demons and a darkness that stretches so far that it blots out the stars and moon.”

Leopold shifted in his chair, sitting up straight and studying his brother's posture, his strange expression. “….and did you go to the diviners? Have them interpret it for you?”

“No,” Gregor answered, walking away from the mantle and sitting down at the small circular table across from his brother. He did not seem to notice Leopold observing him. “I described it to Mother. She didn’t seem concerned. Father wasn’t either. But something about it still bothers me.” Gregor tapped the saucer of his teacup with his finger. 

Leopold had not noticed the feather sitting on the saucer until right this moment. He peered at it. “Where did that come from?”

Gregor looked politely puzzled. “What?”

“That feather?”

Gregor laid his palm over the feather, obscuring it from view. “There’s nothing there you need to see, Cam.”

Leopold wrinkled his nose. _Cam? Who is that?_

“You know who that is, little brother,” Gregor told him. 

Leo shifted, leaning back in his chair. To his knowledge, his brother couldn't read thoughts. “What are you talking about?”

Gregor opened his mouth. But then….he….he _kept_ opening his mouth. Like a snake, like he’d unhinged his fucking jaw, as a black void split Gregor’s face open. Leopold jerked, crying out in horrified surprise and tried to get up.

He couldn’t. His hands were lashed down with some kind of blackened, slimy rope. How hadn’t he noticed that? Leopold twisted and writhed against the bindings and his brother’s mouth continued to widen, a disgusting gaping maw of darkness. “Gregor! What the _fuck—?!_ ”

A _hand_ crawled out, fingers blackened and slimy, half-rotted and streaked as the fingers used his brother's _teeth_ to anchor itself. Leopold swore, fighting and cursing, yelling at his brother, yelling at Gregor to—

But the hand flashed out, grabbing his black hair and _yanking._ Leopold’s nose hit his wine cup, he heard it shatter and felt the slivers of ceramic grind into his face. The grip on his hair tightened, another hand latched onto his neck. 

“It is inevitable, Leopold,” Gregor said, calmly watching his younger brother struggle against the slimy black clawed hands dragging Leopold across the small table, spilling cups and a platter of cheese, close enough so Gregor could stand over him. “Your fate is already decided.”

Leopold roared helplessly, trying to grab onto the table to pull back. He _felt_ two hands on either side of his head, felt them grab in, pull up and _snap—_

Cam jumped against the corner, opening his eyes to the silent inn. He shuddered, relieved to find himself awake. A dream. Just another bad dream. Another dream. He still couldn’t help but palm his throat, somehow still feeling the slimy black shadow hands. It was still night and the room was dark. Moonlight peaked through the parts of the cloak Cam had hung over the window.

Boone was in bed, curled up in an anxious knot on one side. Dagna was not there. Cam started to get up when her head popped into view on the other side, apparently having been looking through her belongings. When she saw him, Dagna didn’t say anything. She grabbed her pack and walked over to him. 

“Can’t sleep?” Cam asked her quietly. 

Dagna shrugged. “Bad dreams?” She asked him instead. 

Cam wrinkled his nose at her. 

That made her smile. “So, I was thinking—do you remember those gems we all got that supposedly link us to….those other people? Not really sure if they are other versions of us or just adventurers that are somewhere else. But if we died, they died and vice versa.”

Cam nodded. “Yeah, I do. Boone’s was black, Cyrus’ was clear, Kallas had green, I have blue and yours was yellow?”

“So Kallas and Cyrus, their alternates must be dead too somehow. Tinker could switch back and forth when he crushed it. I didn’t realize it would reform. But we could probably use them the same way, I would think. Unless you have to enter into a knowing contract?” Dagna mused. 

“So if Kallas and Cyrus’ gemstones were destroyed, maybe they went to the other world?” Cam shrugged. 

“Seems possible. Unlikely, but possible. And maybe since their bodies were destroyed, they can’t get back? Or, at least, Cyrus' body was destroyed. No way of knowing for Kallas, I suppose.” Dagna pulled out her little travel journal and paged through it but didn’t appear to see anything relevant. “Did you guys ever meet with Cadron? I heard he spoke to you about the cursed paintings that Cyrus was making?”

Cam shook his head. “The first time we saw him was…after the first night we used the cabin, actually.” He scowled a little when he recalled that detail. Another third or fourth strike against the tiny cabin, a second strike against Cadron. “He just happened to show up on the road where we were, saying he was _drawn_ to the place. That was suspicious to us, so yeah, we were initially saying, meh, fuck that guy. But then when more of Cyrus’ drawings went bad—we got sidetracked with the drow thing. And then Cadron ended up dead. Ha, I mean, unless he faked his own death.”

“Him, I could see imitating Tribek,” Dagna grumbled. 

“Or they are working together. Tribek tried to suggest Cadron go to Ebreosea instead of you. Didn’t he know that you hated the guy?”

Dagna frowned and nodded. “Could have been for his connections, like he said.”

“Or a ruse to make sure you went instead of anyone else.” Cam rubbed his hand down his face. 

Dagna stared down at her knees. Her red hair was like the embers of a fire in the dim moonlight.

Cam had, for all intents and purposes, been bred a warlord prince of Jildos. From the age of five, Leopold and his elder brother trained to use the sword, mace, lance and bow. Cam was riding horses by six, introduced to strategy games by seven and saw his first execution at eight, all the while being told of all the glorious victories he was sure to have on the battlefield one day. He had been surrounded by beautiful women and glamorous men his whole life. Nobles and their finery were as commonplace, and as utterly dull to him, as tumbled river stones. It was all a veneer. 

But even they would have been envious of the shade of Dagna’s hair. Thick and fiery red, contained in the thirty or so warrior braids with beads and tiny bells. The bard, a princess of barbarians, she had no finery. She had bagpipes and leathers. She carried weapons. Dagna had made him laugh. She had scars and freckles. It might not have been her day-to-day but on Dagna, she could have made noble finery _glitter._ Though that had more to do with her than with the finery itself. Not that that was her style. Or even his. Not that his mattered. Cam looked away, feeling clumsy in his head and grateful he hadn’t said that out loud, at least. Maybe it was just how close they’d all come to death. Some of them more than once. 

Ha, that was true, he supposed. Even Boone had died, what, twice now that she _knew_ of? First via Cyrus, then again in the temple when she turned blue like an asamar. Jazirian sure seemed intent on keeping her in his service. 

“Cam,” Dagna said softly. “Earlier when you killed that drow, you seemed…“

Cam shifted a little awkwardly. “Hadn’t intended to get so carried away. I just got,” he tried to find another word and failed, “….carried away.”

This time, when Dagna touched his hand, Cam chanced a look at her. “I know,” she replied. “I mean, I think I do. It was like you were seeing something else when you looked at me. It was kind of unsettling.”

Cam suddenly remembered the old man and the pirate. He shrugged, almost to himself. “I just….I saw different…..” And Cam shook himself. “I _did_ see something else. Or something. I don’t know. I saw people that _weren’t_ us, that were in a tavern, but not _this_ tavern. They weren’t our alternates from the gems either. An old man who’d been poisoned like you were and a really angry pirate. But I didn’t recognize them or the tavern they were in.”

“We should start writing this stuff down when we see weird things like that,” Dagna suggested. “Who knows, maybe it will come back around later.”

“Ha, we might have to trick Boone or she’ll refuse just on principal.”

Dagna snorted and sighed. “I might have to. The more we hide things, the more we die, it seems like.”

“I can hear you, you know!” Boone suddenly called over from the bed.

“Good!” Cam shot back. “It will save us some time if you just lay your cards out.”

“I imagine that anything I know is nothing that _you_ don’t already know.” Boone was sitting up now, arms crossed.

“Yeah, but that’s just your perspective,” Dagna pointed out. “You might have seen something important to one of _us_ and not known it, Boone. And it seems pretty obvious at this point that more of this is connected than we might have originally suspected. You and Cam knew each other before Bryce’s Landing, right? Or, at least, your families did? But you didn’t _know_ that you’d met Cyrus before you worked together in Bryce's Landing, right?”

Boone sat up against the headboard, frowning. “Fine. But not here. Once we’re on the road. But not here. There are ears everywhere in this place.”

Cam chuckled. “Yeah, did we check the closet to make sure that creepy sitar player isn’t in here?”

“Seriously, though,” Dagna grumbled. “She literally sang a verse about Kallas. Literally. There’s no way she could know that about him specifically unless she can read thoughts. It wasn't even very good.” She crossed her arms, as if that settled the matter.

“I mean, there _is_ a spell for reading thoughts,” Cam reminded her. “Pretty sure that’s divination, though I imagine a bard could get the job done.”

“Yeah, she touched the halberd too,” Boone threw in. “And she greeted it. Like it was a damn person.”

“Well, she did say she wasn’t a bard, probably just someone who likes playing. But still….” Dagna rubbed her jaw.

The trio all looked by the door, where the footboard of the bed was still blocking the entrance. The halberd was leaning against the wall, silent like a sentry. The blade was still oddly matte darksilver but otherwise, appeared a normal weapon. Boone absently touched the feather through her cloak again.

Dagna drew out a topaz-shaded gem from her pack. It seemed duller than before. “These gems are kind of the only leads we have to getting Kallas back, right? Tinker disappeared after the fight.”

“Not surprising. That little fuck was not worth Kallas dying,” Cam grumbled. “I knew it was going to go bad when he signed that contract.”

Boone stiffened. “Contract—oh, shit—during the fight! The drow said something to me. Or I heard him? I think, anyway? Anyway, I heard them say something about them _’requiring mortal god blood’_ like during a ritual or something.”

Cam rubbed at his beard growing in thick across his cheeks. “Mortal gods, huh?” He looked at Boone, pointedly examined the white dragon mark that was sparkling across her blue skin. “Is there any kind of place that’s special to Jazirian? Or a library where we could find out? You are becoming a....celestial? I would guess?”

Boone took out her waterskin for a few sips. “Likely not on this island. We’ll probably have to go to the mainland. Jildos doesn’t have much use for academics, it seems like.”

Cam chuckled. “Not for anything besides war. So, don't worry. You didn't miss anything by not becoming my sister.”

“Sister?” She wrinkled her blue nose at him. It made the scales on her cheek shimmer like snow.

“You were supposed to marry my brother. You would basically be my sister if shit hadn’t gone to hell.” Cam chuckled again. “Of course, my mother probably would have imprisoned or murdered you if it hadn’t, so, you know. Small favors.”

Boone rolled her eyes, grumbling and turned over in bed to lie down with a huff. 

Dagna crooked half a smile before she looked to Cam. “Why don’t you try and get some sleep?”

The pariah shrugged. “Bad dreams,” he answered cheerfully.

“Me too. So I’ll wake you, if you wake me,” Dagna told him, allowing a small, tired smile. 

Cam studied her green eyes in the pale light. “Y-yeah,” he managed, somehow clumsy again and then offered out his hand to shake for some reason.

That made her chuckle and she shook it, gripping firm and warm before leaning back against the wall next to him. Surprisingly, he dozed off first and when his head tipped over to her braids, she just said, “Raggabrash,” fondly and didn’t move.

The young man sat still, cross-legged. His eye hurt. It throbbed and pulsed behind the patch. He did not know where he was. He was seated on a tiny black sandy island in the middle of a large lake. But the water was strange, thick and almost oily black. All he could do was look around. His spine and legs felt stiff and unmovable as he gazed around the landscape. It was dark, the only light seemed to come from the lava flats that appeared to be far to the north east of his location. There was no sky that he could really discern, just a dusty greyish haze. 

_"Greetings, young one."_

The young soldier found his gaze settling on a strange figure. Like a raven but huge, at least the size of an orc. Its shoulders were bulky with feathers. On its face, there was a blank white mask with a long beak, like a plague mask, the young man would recall. 

It seemed that this figure watched him for a long time, simply standing before him, staring. _"Who are you?"_

The young man stared at the pointed beak. His eye was _throbbing._ "I don’t know."

Everything seemed to shift and speed around him, shadows and figures running in circles, dissipating like sand and then reforming. The only stationary thing was the Raven. The mask had dark holes for eyes. _"If you lose your name, then He will take it from you. He remembers when you forget."_

The young man leaned back a hair to examine the massive bird creature. “My name?”

_"No more pretending. Who are you?"_

The young man looked at his hands, calloused and dotted with small scars and cuts from knifework. Knifework? Like _slicing a bare, slender throat,_ like he’d trained for his whole life. For the honor and glory of his House! Something in him wanted to pull away.

_"No, young one. Face your actions, even if they are not your choice. You must remember."_

“My choice was never,” he heard himself say to the Raven. “I never wanted it.” _Wanted what?_

The Raven leaned in, seeming to expand before him. _"Many things in this world are never wanted. To only desire change when it is convenient is not change at all."_

“I didn’t want to do it!” He screamed it at the Raven. It echoed across the still lake, fracturing the vacuum of silence. The smaller birds around the Raven scattered and then flew back. 

The creepy plague mask did not shift in the slightest. _"What did you want to do?"_

A sandy shadow formed, running towards him across the lake, small, with misty eyes and _tattoos_

“Save Brenna.” It tumbled from his lips before he really registered what he was saying. A ring of red light _pulsed_ underneath the lake in a bright, blood-colored circle and then it vanished. He had heard that somewhere before. Those two words together. Spoken by….by…someone important to him, he was sure.

A misty shadow tried to form itself at the edge of the island but was swept away by the wind.

Again, the Raven did not seem to move but the young man sensed its focus on him. _"You cannot help her until you help yourself."_

The man tried to raise his hands, to try and appeal to the Raven but it just felt _so_ heavy. “I did everything I could…I tried to stop it.” Right? Hadn’t he? The young man was having a hard time remembering the circumstances of his arrival. Fuck, just like arriving in the Devonshire girl’s room. _How did I get here?_ “But I still killed her.”

_"Who did you kill?"_

He looked up at the Raven again. Black feathers and pale white mask, like _her_ in the flesh. Like someone he met in the port city-- “Boone!” he suddenly spat. “Raven Queen. Devonshire. I _killed_ her.” For a moment, a black, sandy shadow formed by the lake's edge. Tall, long-legged, with inky dark hair. And those _piercing_ glacier-blue eyes

The ring of red light flashed under the water again and faded. It was closer this time, the man observed. The shadow of the woman disappeared. 

_"Who are you?"_ The Raven seemed to peer into him. 

“I’m _dead!_ What does it matter!”

_"You gave your death to me, young one. And now the pact will be fulfilled."_

A clear gem appeared, blinking into existence on the young man’s left knee. It perched precariously in the dingy light. 

_"Now, young one, look into your eye."_

The young man gingerly picked up the gem. With his other hand, he slid the patch up and his silver eye whorled, peering into it.

\----------------------------------


	5. Determination

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kallas and Brenna BFF music: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GhlLy2elSlI&list=PLQuOKHNudkme-P2XykOQOMLhdu_WjLR7A&index=61&t=0s
> 
> \----------------------------  
Kallas’ shoulders stiffened like a snapping tree branch, almost imperceptive. He resisted the urge to turn around and punch Cyrus right in the mouth. The hapless painter was even _less_ socially evolved than Boone, the tiefling reminded himself. A common problem among humans. Cyrus likely had not even thought before he said it.  
\----------------------------

The landscape of the Shadowfell was beautiful, in a stark sort of way. Perhaps he was better suited to appreciate it, as a tiefling? Joking aside, Kallas did not know because he’d never _known_ of anyone to travel to the Shadowfell and return. He had trecked through many cities and talked to people of all walks of life, and it was a wizard that had told him about the shadowplanes. A dangerous, miserable place, between life and death, souls trapped there could writhe for an eternity. There were apparently physical buildings somewhere and, supposedly, a largish city but Kallas had not yet seen one or the other, besides the vast cavern he'd woken up in. He had slipped out like a wisp in the dark, as he suspected being in any populated area might be a very bad idea. Just in case.

He wouldn't claim to know enough about this plane to say whether the denizens might be friend or foe to a tiefling but he felt that, as he was basically unarmed and alone, this was not the proper juncture to find out. Same as many places he had been, though comments about his infernal heritage tended not to reach his ears now that he was an adult, typically it was nothing more than snide cowardice. As a child, he’d had every insult from humans and elves and dwarves, and the most important thing he learned from this degradation, was patience. To react in anger tended to cause _more_ very immediate issues. It was better to step back, observe, analyze and then act with knowledge, confidence and determination. Knowledge, Kallas had found, was the most useful resource one could acquire. 

This _did_ tend to make him curious, though. In that, he and Brenna had shared a sometimes-dangerous attribute. (She always insisted it was not a flaw.) He would blame this trait when he heard the _blast_ of sound about a hundred feet off to his left. Kallas had heard wailing and shrieks of the lost (those without any memories left, was his working theory) and the calls of the strange denizen animals or monsters of the rocky lava flats and harsh terrain. But this was different. 

It sounded like a horn, like a war horn. 

Kallas hesitated and cast around but no other denizens were in sight. So Kallas did a swift turn and stepped lightly through the ash to the rocky outcropping shaped like a crescent moon, carefully slipping around the lowest point of rock. 

At first, Kallas didn’t see anyone but what he _did_ see stopped him. 

A wide, thick circle of mushrooms outlined an ash-blanketed area of about twenty feet across. Some fae were known to build circles of mushrooms or flowers, supposedly to trick unknowing mortals to crossing into the fae realm. But hardly anything grew here in the Shadowfell, seeing any plantlife was strange. But as Kallas got closer, he realized someone was lying in the middle of it, with two people standing next to him. They were shadows, sandy shades of what Kallas had to presume were people. Someone’s memories, perhaps?

“Ooooh _shit,_ you gave him one of _those?”_ A tricky sort of voice cringed, “That was a special spore.” A tiefling accent, Kallas noticed. 

“Well! I thought he was going to die!” A woman shouted back angrily. “You were too busy being drilled, darling! You didn’t think that _blasting_ horn was important?!”

Kallas slowed his approach, automatically trying to touch the grip of his rapier. Unfortunately, along with his armor, his sword had rusted almost to uselessness. He kept it anyway, for it felt very _very_ wrong to throw away _anything_ that might help him remember himself. The Shadowfell seemed to drain the energy out of the lost ones here, to tire them so much that they no longer cared who they were, to make their names easier to take. If he threw his rapier away, this _place_ would absorb it, take it away and it would _know_ something. And then Kallas might forget. It _lurked_ in him: _Do not forget._

Regardless, neither the shadows of the two people, nor the third, seemed to notice him. The two standing turned to ash and blew away but the one sitting, now stood. It did not move or turn to look around. The dusty shade was featureless but for its dragon-like head.

Kallas looked at the figure, then the circle of mushrooms. He noticed there were two different kinds: one looked to be a normal mushroom, pale mauve and white. But the other was different, matte black, streaked with green. 

Kallas stepped into the circle.

And all at once, the shade and mushrooms turned to ash and the tiefling fell into darkness.

The drow fell on top of Brenna. Kallas grabbed the dead mage by her hair and ripped her off of the gnome, throwing the corpse down the steps of the massive altar. “Brenna!” Kallas knelt to her. “Brenna?”

Brenna did not stir. Her eyes were wide and empty, face streaked in blood. 

Kallas felt like he couldn’t breathe, eyes skittering over her still face, smearing blood away from her eye. “Brenna….”

The teifling felt Cam come up behind him, gently touching his shoulder. “Kall…..”

“Can’t you _do_ something?” Kallas demanded, coming to his feet in one fluid movement, whirling on the sorcerer. Cam drew his hand back but did not look at Brenna. “You have magic, yes? Can you bring her back?”

Cam opened his mouth soundlessly, seeming to try and think of something to say and then shook his head. “I…_can’t,_ Kallas. I—she’s gone. I knew people who could have….in another life. But….but I can’t. There’s nothing I can do.”

“I don’t think there’s anything we can do.” Cyrus ghosted up to Cam’s other side, frowning. His blue eye was hard on the gnome. “That thing, it sucked the souls of Ghost Butler and Brenna….we may not be able to bring her back at all.”

Cam stiffened, shooting a stricken look at him. “But—we, well, we have to…._try.”_

The rogue felt like his gut was splitting apart. He knelt again, gently brushing Brenna’s hair from her face. “Brenna….” He whispered once more, the reality settling in his stomach the longer the gnome did not respond. 

“Kallas….” He heard Cam again, gently.

“What about Boone?” Kallas asked gruffly instead. He still did not look at the humans, just at the gnome. Just at Brenna, who had helped him, defended him, and protected him. Brenna, whom he had promised to help. He had watched her ancestors come to her, watched her risk life and limb for them all. Sometimes, it felt like only _she_ truly saw him out of all the people he had worked with over the years. 

Cyrus knelt by the paladin. “She’s still breathing, just unconscious. And still blue. I can’t heal her.”

“Neither can I. I got nothing left,” Cam breathed, sounding tired and raw. “Let’s get them on the carpet.”

Cyrus scooped Boone onto the magic rug. Kallas picked up the little gnome, cradling her like a toddler as he went to the carpet and knelt on it. Her tattoos were no longer glowing. He traced the memory of one with his thumb, down her cheek and over her jaw.

A massive stone came thundering out of the ceiling and _smashed_ a city block to cinders. 

“We should go,” Cyrus urged again. “We still have intel to retrieve and I would like to get paid.”

Kallas’ shoulders stiffened like a snapping tree branch, almost imperceptive. He resisted the urge to turn around and punch Cyrus right in the mouth. The hapless painter was even _less_ socially evolved than Boone, the tiefling reminded himself. A common problem among humans. Cyrus likely had not even thought before he said it. That was the ‘mindless soldier’ part of Cyrus’ upbringing, no doubt. As a soldier, as a person, he had no value but what someone _else_ decided he was worth. No identity but what another _allowed_ him to have. _Indoctrination._

Besides, clocking Cyrus might make him feel better right now but who knew if it would actually _do_ anything. Certainly Kallas had noticed that Cyrus did appear to be alive, but definitely greyer. He appeared Undead. He appeared _really_ Undead. The tiefling took a deep breath but couldn’t keep the terse bite out of his tone. “Yes, I would like to get _something_ out of this.” 

If anyone heard the tremor in his voice, no one spoke of it. Cam simply walked beside him, saying nothing, but he could feel the human’s hazel eyes on him. When he offered out the dimensional bag, Kallas understood. It was awful to think of Brenna as some _thing_ but the bag was safe and airtight. Her body would be…better preserved, protected. Less chance of being damaged.

Another crash took Kallas’ attention as they rounded a corner to reach the estate where this information was supposedly held.

And then another human, a female named Dagna, was running towards them. Kallas felt like everything was speeding around him while he slogged through quicksand, trying to suppress everything down so he could function. Like Boone was when she jumped back into awareness. When she demanded to know what had happened, Kallas couldn’t answer. His words stoppered up in his throat. Cam did it instead. 

The woman, Dagna, at least, jumped right in to the fray. She touched everyone, using her magic to heal their bodies. Too little too late for Brenna. All they could do now was press onward. 

_Press onward._

Kallas now stood on a large stone altar. It looked exactly like the altar from the drow city, as if it had been plucked up and placed here in the Shadowfell. He watched sandy shadows of his memories: the drow woman died and he watched Brenna take a single step back when the tendril snaked around her. Watched the _jolt_ as she was shocked from her body and torn away, struggling and fighting and yelling.

Kallas had not heard or seen her struggles when he’d actually _been_ in the drow city. But here, he _saw_ her soul, lunging away, trying to fight and scrap. How her ancestors howled in fury when this beast pulled her away from them. How they tried to cluster around her, to slow her, tried to pull her back. But nothing worked.

The spirit Kallas recognized as Leon had then jumped out of the throng, latched on to Brenna’s axe—and then both had disappeared. The ancestors turned as one to look directly at the tiefling and thundered in dozens of ethereal voices: _”Save Brenna!”_

“I will.” He didn’t know how yet but Kallas was now certain he was on the right track. He clenched his fist, brought it to his chest in salute and then bowed to her ancestors.

And then they too, turned to ash. 

Kallas found himself back on the path, where he’d heard the original blast of sound. The feather was now tucked in his breast pocket, still faintly illuminating when he took it out. He was not sure what to do with it but he did not dare toss it away. This must connect him to _something._ He had felt Cyrus' death with such certainty the first time he touched it that he could not help but logic that it must have something to do with the human. Perhaps the Raven Queen was the ‘other’ presence that Cyrus had once mentioned (rather than Bahamut, which was the other possibility). One seemed to be evil and vile, the one that had killed the drow in the cabin. (“Well, that did _not_ go as expected.”) But there was another too, that seemed good. Though good and evil often seemed beholden to perspective, the ‘better’ of the two presences had fought for Cyrus’ soul, had equipped him somehow to specifically help Boone. 

And the Raven Queen, Cyrus' patron for the pact with his halberd? Kallas suspected that she was the reason that he was in the Shadowfell and not currently being tormented by Asmodeus. So he was willing to take her words to heart. Be careful with one’s name and memories and if Brenna were here, he would find her.

Kallas touched the pocket where his feather was safely stowed. What if Cyrus had somehow ended up here? _This place would be very dangerous for someone like Cyrus._ The luckless noble would have nothing to remember himself by if he had only ever learned to _obey._ Hapless, unlucky, formerly Undead, and probably cursed, Cyrus was definitely all those things, but evil? Vindictive? Hateful? No. 

Kallas steeled his resolve. If Cyrus were here, he'd find _him_ too.

_(“Boone!”)_

Boone jumped in her chair. She was sitting down in the tavern at the same bench they’d been attacked at last night. The table had been cleaned but still beheld two crossbolt marks. She nearly knocked over her tin cup.

Cam looked up from shoveling fried potatoes in his mouth, lifting his eyebrows. Dagna full-stopped, mug of tea half-raised.

“I…sorry.” Boone shook herself. “I thought I heard…something. I mean. A voice, fuck that sounds worse. I thought I heard Cyrus say my name. Which is stupid, yes, I already know. He’s dead. I’m not. I know.”

Dagna lifted her fingers in a placating gesture. “It’s all right. Sometimes that happens, you hear or see people who meant a lot to you in some way, in places they could never be after they're gone or outta your life. It happens.”

“Uh,” Cam managed, slack-jawed, pointing over Boone’s shoulder with his fork as the chunk of potato fell off. 

Dagna saw, eyes widening. “Boone, the halberd!”

The paladin leapt up and whirled around where it was leaning against the support pillar of the tavern. The grip felt the same as Boone took it and moved the weapon into the light. It was the blade that had changed. The dark matte grey that had clouded it after Cyrus' death was gone. It was now a crystalline silver. The blade was like a shimmering prism. “What the….”

Cam put his fork down and looked around the tavern. “Okay, that's different. Let’s get out of here. Take the food to go." The sorcerer lurched up, donning his cloak and jamming biscuits into his pockets. "Too much spooky shit for one tavern. Let’s go.”

\-----------------------


	6. Coincidence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> DnD Mood music: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q_E9p6KN71o&list=PLQuOKHNudkme-P2XykOQOMLhdu_WjLR7A&index=82&t=0s  
\------------------------------------------------  
The first bit is based on episode 180 (also I have no idea how to spell That Dude's name): https://tabletopchamps.simplecast.com/episodes/180  
(June 2020) Boone's full name was not revealed until season 06, so I am now updating that. Wooo.  
\------------------------------------------------
> 
> “And Asmodeus pointed you out specifically,” Cam said, bracing his elbows on the railing and looking sidelong at Boone. “So it’s very fair to say that my mother probably wanted you dead before you even arrived.”  
\----------------------------------

Cyrus staggered in the tunnels, his hands went cold. Cam froze, reaching out as if to grab onto to him. “Hey, you all right?”

The soldier looked around the sewers and he could _feel_ the _sack._ Roughly the size of a body, _bloody._ Bloody copper in his nose. He could feel the _stoop_ that had been in his step. _I didn’t want to! I didn’t mean to! I don’t even know her!_ The terrible _helplessness_ as he could only watch, a passenger in his own body—

“Cyrus? What’s wrong?” 

He felt his stomach lurch but he braced his left palm against the wall and kept walking. “I…I don’t know.”

Cam peered at him. “Maybe the smell, huh?” 

_No,_ Cyrus could not seem to help the thoughts, _no, not this smell._ The heady stench of blood was so tangible it was almost _thick._ Cyrus’ words failed him, breaking out in a cold sweat and a lump tightening his throat, but he managed to shake his head. 

When they passed a tunnel that Cam was definitely not interested in going down, he saw Cyrus suddenly swerve, staggering. “Hey, whoa whoa whoa, not that way, Cyrus. We definitely don't want to go that way.”

“I….I _know….”_ Cyrus snapped, turning his face to the wall, putting his back to Cam. His breathing seemed shaky.

_Goddammit Cyrus don’t choose right now to get taken over by a fucking devil or whatever._ He shoulda just taken Kallas. Seriously. The most reasonable, clear-headed guy was…all right, yes, it was better for him to be in on these talks. Even if he only were to observe, Cam did not argue that the tiefling had a better head for pretty much everything that required any kind of detail. The human stopped still now, squaring his shoulders, tensing to spring. “What’s going on, Cyrus?”

In the flickering torchlight, Cyrus looked down the tunnel. “I….know this place.” He swayed again but Cam did not move closer, watching. There was an uncanny sort of twitch to Cyrus that seemed both familiar and repulsive. The halberd was burning gold in the flame of his torch. 

Cam shifted his stance, circling and letting his left hand trace down to his sword, fingers remembering the grip. Just in case. “You _know_ this place? Down there? Seems unlikely, Cyrus.”

“I didn’t want to go! I don’t _want to go!”_ Cyrus cried out and then took a shuddering breath. He leaned heavily against the brick and then his blue eye finally raised up to Cam. In the dim light it was…_hollow._

_Like Gregor’s eyes…_

That _hollow_ blue eye closed and Cyrus drug his fingers down his face. “I know this place.” He stood up and looked down the hall where the Macwell estate connected to the tunnels. “I’ve been here before. It smells like blood.”

Cam grimaced at him among the flickering shadows as he took an extra sniff of the stale, stagnant air. It didn't smell coppery to him. “What do you mean you’ve _been_ here before? I’m the only one that’s been here before. Your family apparently didn’t tell you about the tunnels, right?”

“No….” he mused uneasily. “I was never….good enough….never...” Cyrus again looked like he might be ill but he stayed on his feet. His bright blue eye flickered around him uneasily. "Something happened here. I can still _feel_ it. Something _bad_ happened...but I can't _place_ it. I've never been here before. There would be no reason for me to have come here. Sabals wouldn't have been able to use the tunnels for ages. Maybe my father did not even know of them. But down there... ” And Cyrus hesitated, turning his eerie blue eye on Cam, "....that's where you lived. The Macwell Estate. But that doesn't make sense. Why would I know that....?" Cyrus gazed into the shadows. 

Well, Cam could agree, Cyrus _definitely_ shouldn't know that. Something didn't fit. Something was jarring apart. _Deserted a battle that didn’t happen…_

Cam gripped his sword, dread was creeping up his spine like a choking weed. “Why _do_ you, Cyrus?” 

The man did not appear to notice, surveying the details of the walls, trying to logic out something that Cam was not certain even Cyrus understood. It was what made the warlock more dangerous than any of them, that unpredictability. Cam could give the man that, definitely. Cyrus had been raised into a very efficient tool.

Long days ago when young Leopold watched troops and formations and learned the call signs and standard-bearers and House flags, he would recognize the _military_ precision with which Cyrus fought. And halberds were long and ungainly weapons to the unskilled. Sure, Cam had learned how to use several basic styles but, as a fighter, he preferred the sword. Versatile and consistent, as both tool and weapon. Halberds were typically a different style of fighting, of living, really. Ideally, in small groups, such fighters were like a needles, whipping in and around friend and foe. So one had to be on their fucking game or would end up slicing their friends or getting their weapon broken. They had to move fast to account for the distance and root themselves quickly to strike with any power. Not to mention, they had to constantly be aware of its length. There had to be some thinking ahead just to make sure you didn’t ride under a bridge and knock yourself off your horse. Less flexible for Cam.

But in the hands of Cyrus, it was fluid death. And apparently, his was a family relic? With a gem on it that changed color like his cursed eye, from what Cam had observed. _Oh yeah, the cursed eye he doesn’t remember getting, just the friendly fire from his brothers that knocked him out. I’m sure that’s not connected at all._

But what made Cyrus truly dangerous was that _unknown_ piece of him. Every other person, even Boone-turned-celestial, were pretty consistent in their words and actions. But Cyrus, well….Cam still had dreams of that _hand_ killing the drow. That moment was going to be seared into his brain for the rest of his life. Not Cyrus’ fault. But something _inside_ of Cyrus was definitely wrong. _Who am I kidding? It’s probably Asmodeus._ And the more insistent Cyrus was that there was nothing wrong, the more apparent it became that something _definitely was._ Just like with the damn cursed kris knife.

Cyrus shuddered again, like he were shaking off a chill. “I don’t know. I’m sorry. Let us move on.”

Cam stared at him as the other noble composed himself. Cyrus: unaware of anything but his immediate self, his immediate surroundings and had been raised an efficient weapon. And Kallas, clear-headed and logical, able to step back and observe the big picture, and somehow _both of them_ had problems with Asmodeus, King of Nine Hells! _We are so fucked._ Maybe he should have insisted on taking Boone after all. Or, fuck it, just go with Dagna and settle up with Governor-General Lumeris and all the rest right now. Just unleash Cyrus first and then he'd follow and a _bloodbath_ would ensue and he'd probably get killed. Cam closed his eyes and took a deep breath to calm himself but he kept his grip on his sword. 

Cyrus seemed nearly back to normal until they got under the grating. Cam heard an unfortunately familiar voice saying: “Perhaps it would behoove us to listen to what they have to say?”

Cyrus’ blue eye glazed over and his face went chalk white. _That voice. Buvgai Aboken._ His knees sagged and Cam almost tripped right over him. “Buvgai Aboken….”

Cam circled just out of reach, eyeing the other spellcaster. “Yeah, he’s a snake.” And then: “Wait, how do you know him?"

Cyrus' gaze stayed on the brick. "He....cast...he cast a spell on me. He...."

Cam felt that choking weed touch his neck. "What did he do to you, Cyrus?”

“It was me.” His halberd clattered to the ground.

Cam let go of his sword's grip, watching the soldier curl in on himself. “What was you?”

Cyrus stared at his hands, shaking inside and out. “It was my fault. I—Boone. I killed Boone. I cut her throat.”

Cam's eyes went wide, stunned. “Uh. _What?”_

“That man, his voice—I _know his voice!_ Buvgai Aboken. He cast a spell on me, altered my memory. He used a magical command and made me _kill_ her!” 

_Oh fuck, I was not ready for today._ “Okay, wow, okay. Uh. Cyrus.” Cam raised his hands in a calming gesture. Right, maybe he _wouldn't_ unleash the warlock after all.

“There was never a battle! I was never a deserter!” The soldier was getting up, his eye turned hard like blue ice. “I will take off his _head!_ I was exiled for nothing! I was _branded_ as a coward! He is the reason—“

“Okay, Cyrus, I need you to listen—“ Cam looked back and forth in the tunnels, in case he had to tackle the man. 

“—that my family was finally banished from the city! I will _take--”_

“Keep your voice down, first! Sound travels in these tunnels. We need to go meet Kallas, Dag and Boone, remember?”

_”I killed Boone!”_ The torch in Cam’s hand flickered. It was as if, for a moment, Cyrus pulled all the light to himself, his palpable despair smothering it down as the shadows seemed to manifest, to lengthen, to _reach_ for him. The gem on his halberd flickered black as obsidian. 

Cam, against his own better judgment, took a step towards his friend. Very lightly, he laid his palm on his shoulder. “Cyrus, look, you _cannot_ walk in there with a weapon and expect to make it out. They will _kill_ you. And better that Buvgai doesn’t know that you’re here at all. It's a good thing you came with me because they probably would have arrested or killed you as soon Aboken recognized you.”

Cyrus shuddered and seemed to come back to himself. The darkness relented and the torch burned brightly again. “Cam, I know we do not always see eye to eye--"

"Nope, I'd have to get a cursed eye and lose my depth perception."

"--but please don’t tell Boone about this yet.”

Cam almost burst out laughing at the absurdity of _that_ idea. “Oh no. _You_ are telling Boone about this. I’m not telling Boone about this. Are you kidding me? I’m not stupid.”

That made Cyrus smile, just a faint, tired little twitch at the corners of his mouth. He straightened up, leaning against the brick wall for a moment. “I feel like I have lost control of my life.”

Nothing ever said by this exiled-formally Undead-cursed warlock-turned-dragon guardian aspect-of-Bahamut, had made more fucking sense than that. “You and me both, so let’s just do this shit one step at a time. First step, out of these tunnels. Because I hate them.” 

_And all three of us somehow ended up in Bryce’s Landing._

Devonshire De'Boon, Boone to her companions, had been alone for most of her childhood. She and her brother were practically strangers. He hadn't even been at the manor the day the invitation came.

She had grown up the child of a family with only moderate wealth, which had made her invitation to the Macwell estate all the more remarkable. No one had expected the summons. It had come as a letter, gilded in gold and written in glimmering calligraphy ink by Lady Talisa Macwell herself. What an incredible honor to have the Lady of Jildos invite them!

Boone hadn't really felt it. Her parents certainly had. They were eager for their tall, somewhat awkward daughter to be suitably matched. They would never have expected the Macwells. They were the most powerful House in Jildos. How the Macwells had learned about their daughter, no one seemed to know. But _everyone_ knew that they had two sons and the elder was the implied suitor. No one knew much about the younger son. 

There had been a flurry of activity, almost a month of travel by carriage and ship, and a grand reception when they had arrived at the Macwell estate. Lord and Lady De'Boon were already mostly convinced before they even saw the city gates but afterwards….well, it took only one meeting with Lady Macwell. A modest supper the night of their arrival, held in a smaller, more intimate dining room in the Macwell’s wing of their estate.

Talisa Macwell swept back her shining dark hair, rings winking in the candlelight. “I am so happy to see how eager you are to ally with us in this matter.”

“We had not expected such an offer, Lady Macwell, and we are _honored_ to meet your son,” Lady De'Boon replied, giving her daughter a sidelong glance.

Lord De'Boon, on Boone’s right side, said, “Our daughter has studied at the Temple from the time she was six. She is a brilliant swordswoman and has excelled in paladin magics.”

Boone looked at her wine, hated the feeling she got when they spoke about her like she wasn’t there. 

But then Lady Macwell leaned forward and gently touched the girl’s long fingers. “My sweetling,” she said gently, “I know how it feels to be given to a family, to be gone from your home and all you know to wed a strange man for the duty of your House. After all, very rarely does it happen the other way.”

Lady De'Boon tittered. Devonshire met Lady Macwell’s dark hazel eyes for a moment, trying to squash the hopeful flutter that went through her chest. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if the Lady understood _that,_ at least.

The graceful Lady then took her hand, cupping it and her smile was warm and lovely. “Yes, it is perfectly normal to be nervous, my dear. And my sons, I do say, have learned from a very early age that disrespect will get them nowhere. Not with a wife and certainly not with me. That is why I was so pleased to hear about you. If all I wanted were a woman to bear them children, I could have asked anyone. But not all Houses train their daughters for strength. And my son requires a strong woman.”

Devonshire felt a flush of embarrassment, glancing down at the table again. 

Lady Macwell gave her an indulgent smile, full of kindness and empathy. “Gregor is my eldest. He is preparing to assume Stewardship of our great House at the turn of the season. It is customary that Stewards marry before this acquisition of power.”

Lord De'Boon folded his fingers together. “What about your younger son?”

Lady Macwell paused for just a split-second and then said, “Gregor is my pride and joy. Leopold is my tumultuous starling. I love him, I adore him, as any mother loves her child. But I admit, he is more willful than his brother. No less charming, no less intelligent, but absolutely more willful. He also is a carrier of our sorcerer line and that can cause unpredictability in a person's temperament.”

“As mages and boys can be,” Lord De'Boon agreed, chuckling good-naturedly.

Lady Macwell’s smile became more fixed, icy. “Indeed. Now,” and here she looked back at Boone, hazel eyes turning gentle and warm again, “there are a few formalities that I must see to. An entire wing has been opened for you, sweetling. You’ll spend a month among us, as our honored guest and at the end of that month, I would like you to meet with one of my advisers to discuss the transition in making Jildos your home, if you so choose.”

“We shall appoint members of our household to transition with her,” Lady De'Boon offered.

But Talisa Macwell raised a hand. “While that would be normal among other houses, it won’t be necessary here. Jildos is loyal to Macwell and Macwell is loyal to Jildos. We have an abundance of staff to look after your daughter’s every need. Tomorrow, you all will meet Gregor at a lunch I have already arranged. If my Lord and Lady De'Boon are satisfied with his conduct, then we will negotiate the financial matters. Providing that is satisfactory to both sides, the young lady will meet with my adviser, to account for her progress in fighting and magic and what steps we need to take to ensure she continues to improve.”

Her parents seemed momentarily taken aback by this. Her mother recovered first. “I see, of course, Lady Macwell. This adviser, do we know him? Is he a member of your court?”

“Yes, mine specifically and, as a tiefling, well acquainted with such matters: Buvgai Aboken.“

Cam crossed his arms. “So that is how you met him.” He frowned up at the crow’s nest. They had chartered a small ship to run them across the Straits of War to the south. They would be able to take on supplies in Avargard. Hopefully, get enough ahead of hired knives to disappear into obscurity. Of course, now that he thought about it, there _was_ the timeless tower, a library that Cam had heard ghost stories about from the time he was a boy. It was also not far from where the Duergar would occasionally come to the surface. But farther to the north was also Etherforge, a city of half-magic, half-metal. Cam tapped the railing. “Do you remember what you talked about?”

Boone signed. “Magic, where I had trained to fight, what I knew about differences between devils and demons, he had all kinds of questions about mundane and magical things.”

“So we have to suppose that your death was planned, Boone,” Dagna mused aloud. “And seriously Cam, your ma is a bitch.”

Cam rubbed his eyes, turning to look out over the sparkling sea. “And Asmodeus pointed you out specifically,” Cam said, bracing his elbows on the railing and looking sidelong at Boone. “So it’s very fair to say that my mother probably wanted you dead before you even arrived.”

“But my family is no one to her—“

Cam waved his hand. “That doesn’t matter. I’m not talking about your family, Boone! I’m talking about _you.”_ He gestured pointedly to her blue skin and shimmering cheek. “She seemed to be in charge, remember? So depending on how long ago my mother betrayed us….this could have been in the planning for months. Years, even. You gotta understand here, my mother was never a warrior. Ever. That she is rolling in armor and some kind of necromancy is _not_ how I knew her. So if she is serving some fucking devil-god, well, guess what happens when an _aspect of Jazirian_ crosses her path?” 

Boone put her forehead in her palm, staring at the waves. “But if she allied with Cin Amon, that would mean…”

“A conspiracy,” Dagna finished. “A large one, with several players. If she and her adviser were in on it, maybe they disgraced Cyrus to drive his family out of the city for good. Sabal was an important house in the old days, right? Maybe she didn't want to risk any Sabals who might use that old name to start a political movement against her. Permanently culling Houses that might oppose her. I mean, if you thin out a Council, and you own the largest military, then guess who owns that Council?”

“I’m gonna guess that my mother heard about you from one of her connections and she invited your family as a front to get to _you.”_

Boone rubbed her eyes. The day had been short but already, the paladin felt tired. “Cam…do you know what happened to my parents?”

The sorcerer looked away. “My mother came to Gregor and I and told us that your parents went home right after financial negotiations on the fifth night. Since you didn’t know that, I’m going to guess that that isn’t what happened?” _Fuck, if I had tried to get to know her then, I might have noticed something was wrong…._

Boone closed her eyes. “Lady Macwell told me the same thing. I knew they were preparing to leave but I thought they would, at least, say goodbye. They liked Gregor. And they had never been ones to question authority, especially with the thousands in gold the estate offered them. But they did not say farewell or anything. She said that they left to make arrangements back home and would return with my brother for the wedding.” Boone closed her eyes at the railing.

“So, for all we actually know, they’re sitting in a dungeon somewhere because I can’t imagine that they would have been quiet about their daughter being _murdered_ during a visit, official or otherwise.” Cam rubbed his jaw.

Boone swayed next to the railing. “I think I need to sit down.” And with that, the paladin turned away from the two of them, heading belowdecks to the hold. 

A tall shadow appeared, walking next to Kallas on the path of ash. The tiefling almost tripped over his own boots. He was now somewhat accustomed to the misty shadows that seemed to be memories playing out among the wastes of the Shadowfell but the tall one reminded him of someone. He slowed his step, peering at the shade. It looked to be a half-elf, with somber eyes, pale hair and heavy-looking armor. He said nothing to Kallas and did not look at the tiefling. 

Two smaller, sandy shades who might be human or elven children, raced ahead of the taller, bouncing in excitement. One of them cried out: _”Taralee is going to be so jealous! We are going on a real adventure with the King of Irulan!”_

_”King Stark the Brave! Just like everyone says! I hope you become king all the time!”_

This shadowy King walked away from Kallas, reaching out a hand to each child. 

The tiefling stood on the path, rooted in place, for he could not recall who the man reminded him of and he was suddenly afraid he had forgotten something important. Also, where or what was Eerulan? Arrowlawn? 

A sandy shadow of what seemed to be a halfling materialized next to Kallas, holding out a gem. _“Goes to some place called Irulan when you crush it?”_

“I have never known any kings,” Kallas said to himself, quietly. Saying it out loud seemed to help solidify that idea. Kallas had traveled far and wide and met many people but he was certain he did not know any kings. Perhaps like the mushroom circle, these were just other memories, not necessarily anything related to his own. 

_"And yet, all memories connect."_

Kallas managed not to jump when the dark woman, his perception of the avatar of the Raven Queen, he suspected, appeared at his side. Sandy black birds clustered around her shoulders. The tiefling frowned. “Do they?”

_"You have met many people in your travels, have you not?"_

“I have,” Kallas answered truthfully.

_"And meeting all of these many different people, what did it show you?"_

Kallas thought about that for a moment. He had met many people but had never had many friends. He had solved puzzles, cases, crimes and met the people behind many of them. He'd spoken with clerics, traded dice with thieves, negotiated to businessfolk and questioned witches and hedge knights. What did they have in common? And then it came to him: “Many people I met reminded me of others I had already met. Mortals are not as individual as we might like to think. Personalities tend to cover a rather small spectrum.”

_"And whose did not?"_

“Brenna, at first, reminded me of many other fighters I’ve met but she was…different. She stuck out to me in a way that most people do not.” She'd been so fierce, and yet, very kindhearted but not arrogant. And now that he thought about it, perhaps that had separated Cyrus, Cam and Boone. 

Sometimes, they had been frustratingly similar to other humans he had met. But Cyrus had his cursed eye and despite his occasional grumbling about money, it didn't actually take much convincing for the man to do the right thing. As if he thought he needed to act selfish _before_ he could express his actual feelings on what they ought to do. That dreadful severity he'd been raised with versus the kinder bit of him that he'd always had to squash down.

Dagna had helped bring that out. She seemed genuinely _good._ And when Cyrus followed Dagna, he tended to try to help. The cursed eye and whatever the aspects were inside of him: Jazirian or Bahamut or Kri'zakath or whoever--likely caused a great deal of interference with his decision-making. And the people he surrounded himself with would be important in helping to influence what aspects got a greater hold on him. _I should have asked Cyrus more. If I had realized that then, perhaps I could have helped him..._

Boone had had her throat cut and seemed to half-suspect her own family (parents, a brother?) though she never elaborated on why. She, like Cyrus, struggled to find her own identity in both the world at large and their small circle. She had clearly been selected by some form of deity before her death at Cyrus' hands, the druids at the Scarlet Forest had basically told her as much. But a girl who'd spent her short life training at a temple had likely not experienced enough to even know what kinds of questions she might have asked. Kallas had supposed that as she was acquainted with her god, that she would _know_ what she needed to do. Perhaps, he had been too hasty. 

_Grifto's bottle, that's when things began to shift._ At the time, he saw her struggling to decide if she wanted to follow Dagna or Cam. And while both were capable, they had different priorities and both were sometimes prone to recklessness. The young paladin was drawn to Cam, that was obvious and, as she was only seventeen, not really that surprising. But Kallas certainly hadn't wanted anything to do with that. She would have to learn to develop her own set of morals, not simply latch on to a stronger personality. _Perhaps I could have tried to show her those tools, though. I could have tried to teach her. So she could learn answers for herself._

And Cam, well, Leopold Macwell, was the heir to a Grand Stewardship of the most powerful military state in the known world. Charming and funny, easy-going and clever but with that backbone of _stubbornness_ that reminded Kallas of Brenna. He was someone who didn't always do what other people wanted, he did what he felt was _right._ And what would help him maintain his freedom, no matter how illogical, at times. (As soon as they got _out_ of Grifto's and he pulled the cork again, they all could have slapped him.) 

Cam had fought against all ties to his Fate. Sometimes, the young man was selfish in that. Only Dagna had been able to convince him to tell them about the tunnels into Jildos. And she'd used their wish from the jinn for him. But overall, Kallas hadn't had to worry as much about Cam, the sorcerer was clearly capable of looking after himself. He made his decisions with purpose, sometimes to his own detriment. _In the druid forest, he allowed Kibs to hurt him so badly simply because he wanted to make his point. I wonder, if I had discussed with him, all that we knew--if he might have had insight I would not have thought of myself?_

Each of the humans had been exiled, slightly different circumstances that ended up being connected. Cyrus had literally had his memory altered to believe he had committed an act of cowardice, was branded and expelled from the military and then disowned from his family. Boone had woken in her own grave outside of Jildos and simply fled. And Cam had walked away from all that power, though whether that had happened before or after the supposed death of his elder brother, Kallas did not know. 

_"Which is preferable: Coincidence or fate?"_

Kallas studied the emotionless white mask. “It would depend on the individual’s perception.”

_"And why is that a problem?"_

Kallas thought again. “Because…one person’s perspective is usually not the complete truth.” Investigating crime had shown him that. The best way to get the truth was to question as many people as possible about the topic in question (a murder, a coup, a war) and draw lines where the stories lined up. And then parse out the falsities from there. 

Ahead of him, Kallas saw a shadow of himself opening up the lungs of the dead woman in Bryce’s Landing. Lungs full of sand. Lungs full of sand. Her death must have been terrible. Full of sand. Had it been dark sand like the sand of the Shadowfell? Like the sand in the temple that Brenna had advised them all not to touch. 

_Not to touch._ And a curved knife winked through Kallas’ mind. A knife like a glistening silver ribbon. Something about the knife…but when he looked up to question the Raven Queen, her aspect was gone. He was alone again.

Up ahead, there now appeared to be a massive black lake. Something was shining in the middle but he could not make it out.

And then he heard a thunderous _boom!_

Sand and water _pulsed_ across the black lake and Kallas crossed his arms over his face and braced himself. Ash swirled around the tiefling and across the lake, he saw a set of _wings_ and then a blast of purple light.

The strange voice of the Raven Queen echoed in his mind: _"Our friend is out of time."_

Kallas felt something in his chest clench. He had always ignored the _loneliness._ Odd that he would suddenly recall it now. “Cyrus!” And abruptly, the tiefling forgot his plans, forgot his focus, forgot everything—he saw the wings across the lake and he _ran._

  
  
  



	7. Mask

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eternal Flame: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lWfbKleaVQE&list=PLQuOKHNudkme-P2XykOQOMLhdu_WjLR7A&index=91&t=0s  
\-----------------------
> 
> When the devil uttered those words, _save Brenna,_ the tiefling felt a flash of something. A rage more intense than he had ever known. A _hatred_ more clear to him than he had ever felt. Kallas drew his rapier.  
\-----------------------

Kallas sprinted across the ash but had to skid to a stop at the shore, eyes roaming over the black, oily lake and the small island in the center. A terrible _ripping_ sound cut the air, making all the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Sparks flared on the little island. _No way to tell the depth and it could be acidic or magical in nature._ But he might not have any choice--

The Raven Queen sifted up from the sand at his side. She raised a black leather gauntlet, fingers wrapped in gauzy lace, and clenched her ash-dusted fist. A red ring of light _pulsed_ under the water. Then the emotionless white mask turned to Kallas. _"Go. He is out of time."_

Kallas took off and to his surprise, did not slog through water at all. It was suddenly shallow as a birdbath. The detective sprinted on top of it towards the shimmers of light but when he reached the other shore he hit something. Kallas was thrown back from it, crashing into the shallows. Some sort of magical barrier or shield? Cam's shields had looked like a sheet of stars to him but this was more _physical._ He scrambled back up.

Beyond it, he could see his friend. Poor Cyrus, the wings were gone, but his silver eye was transfixed on his knee. He did not seem to notice the _hands_ and purple light and a _shadow_ filling in some kind of portal behind him. 

“Cyrus!” Kallas screamed it at the barrier. _“CYRUS!”_

The human was still and silent. He did not seem to hear. Kallas gritted his teeth and put his palm on the barrier, fully expecting something terrible to happen. It felt like dense air, he was unable to push through it and it _burned_ against his skin, searing his palm. Kallas jerked back, inky shadows clinging to his flesh, to his arm, as he tried to shake it off. The shadow flickered black and purple and _tendrils_ began to creep out. Kallas heard a chill voice **_boom_** all around him, shaking into his bones, like all the air were being pressed down on top of him:

_**Ah, the tiefling. How interesting that I find you here. The closer you come, the more your memories sing to me. To whisper your name in my ear. Just like this one.**_

“Leave him alone!” Kallas commanded, shouting felt useless but he couldn’t seem to help it. “Cyrus!”

The tendrils were snaking over him, heading for his cursed eye, open and staring into his knee. 

_**What were the words you imparted to that girl? Save Brenna? It’s too late. You’re too late.**_

When the devil mockingly uttered those words, _save Brenna,_ the tiefling felt a flash of something. A rage more intense than he had ever known. A _hatred_ more clear to him than he had ever felt. Kallas drew his rapier. It was rusted and useless but he was beyond that thought now. This was the monster, the creature that took him from the others, that _tormented_ Cyrus, that stalked Boone, that extorted Tinker, that allied with Cam’s traitorous mother. 

This devil was connected to the beast of Kri’zakth that took Brenna. 

Kallas whipped his blade up and did a lunge at the barrier. It had seared his hand so he had little expectation for his sword but it still jarred him when the slender blade _shattered_ apart against it in a burst of purple blackened sparks. He could only watch in frustration, in horror as slivers of rusted metal rained around his feet.

** _Oh, how noble of you to try so hard to protect your friend. Each failure more significant than the last._**

Tendrils wrapped around Cyrus’ arms and still, the human did not seem to notice. He sat cross-legged on the sandy island as if he were a puppet with cut strings. 

Kallas heard the amusement in the devil's voice, a _skimming_ over his thoughts. **_A puppet, what an accurate comparison._ **

A tendril slithered up to Cyrus’ silver eye and _pushed_ inward from the corner. That was when Cyrus reacted, only to stiffen, arresting in what looked like pain. His eye turned red.

Kallas roared in helplessness, in fury and he threw the ravaged hilt of his rapier to the ash. But it did not go to the ground. He threw it but it jerked back mid-air and levitated in front of him. The feather suddenly burned warm and flipped itself from his front pocket, shimmering before him. Kallas stopped cold, watching as the hilt spun, the feather touched it and then the weapon began to _glow._

The shards of his blade jumped from the ash, radiant silvery gold, reforming together. Kallas did not question it. He grabbed the hilt and it _flashed_ and _sang_ into his blood like a blasting typhoon, like a raging thunderstorm. The tiefling took his rapier and _struck—_

A sound cascaded over him, like a breaking stained-glass window. Arcane, radiant lightning webbed out at the point of contact, striking the barrier in multiple locations at once and the shield _shattered._

The Raven Queen was suddenly beside him again, spiriting in a wave of sand across the broken shield and raising a hand—

_**You have no domain over me!**_ Asmodeus' voice echoed, baleful and furious, reached a clawed hand towards her.

_"Their names are mine."_ And then the dark woman flicked her thumb and forefinger at the robed shadow and the portal. There was a blast of silver light so bright and fierce in the dim of the Shadowfell that Kallas had to cover his face. When he looked again, the tendrils were gone, the menacing shadow was gone and only Cyrus remained. He was lying on his back.

“Cyrus!” Kallas scrambled to him, grabbing the warlock by the shoulders. “Cyrus!”

The human looked dizzy when his eyes crept open. He flinched away, tensing up.

“Cyrus?” The tiefling pulled him by his armor so he was sitting up.

The human peered at him. “Cyrus…” he murmured to himself. “Cyrus…” His blue eye was brighter and his cursed eye was silver again, rather than red. He turned his hands over, looking at his palms. “Cyrus is...me. My name.”

Kallas felt an unexpected shudder of relief, or gratitude, or something that was hard to pin down. “Yes, your name is Cyrus.” Kallas, still kneeling next to him, looked him over. “Are you hurt?”

Cyrus still seemed uncertain but he checked himself over anyway, absently touching his chest with his hands. “I don’t think so.” He peered at Kallas again. “I know you....”

Kallas’ throat almost seemed to zip shut but he offered the human his palm and when he took it, the tiefling helped him stand. “What do you remember?”

“I killed Boone,” he said it automatically, with a despairing sort of resignation. 

“She is still alive, Cyrus. We were going to save Brenna, do you remember that?”

_Save Brenna._ And it clicked together in Cyrus’ head. The person he was sure had said it, sure was important to him in some way, was now standing in front of him. “Save Brenna,” Cyrus murmured. “Yes, I have to do that.” The warlock picked up a clear, diamond-like gem from the sand and looked back at the rogue. “You are missing.”

Kallas got the strange feeling he’d seen that gem before. “We died protecting Boone. Do you remember that?”

Flashes of light, fire, death, the contract appearing in front of this tiefling and the calm with which he had _refused_ to be the pawn to Asmodeus. Sheer bravery in the face of a horrific death and after-suffering. Cyrus raised the clear gem. “Yes, I saw her sleeping when I looked through this.” 

"You saw her through the gem?" _Wait, the gem!_ Kallas suddenly scrambled to his pockets, searching all of them until his fingers found a hard stone. When he drew it out, the tiefling saw a cloudy, darkened emerald. The gems, yes. Somehow, in this place, Kallas had forgotten about them. 

Cyrus seemed as surprised by its existence as Kallas and when he reached for it, the tiefling didn’t stop him. So Cyrus looked through it. 

The quiet tiefling. A rogue. Met him in Bryce’s Landing with Brenna. Turned to ash by Grifto and brought back as a kobold. They hadn’t been as helpful to him as they could have been. They kept forgetting that he had been smaller than a halfling. Jazirian had changed him back. 

Cyrus pulled away from the gem and looked to his new rapier, still faintly glowing silvery-gold. The warlock raised his mismatched eyes: “...Kallas?"

_“Yes.”_ The word had a slight tremble on it and he clasped Cyrus’ whole arm.

The young man smiled and it almost made him look younger, more at peace, but then it fell, along with his gaze. “I…almost forgot you,” Cyrus told him, voice soft and faint.

“I know, my friend. It’s all right.” 

Their arms clasped and neither of them felt any shame in a sudden, awkward embrace of sheer relief in the middle of the dark desolation of the Shadowfell. Amidst all the pain, loneliness and tragedy, each was now all the other had. Cyrus was still shaking, clapping Kallas’ back as if he were afraid the man might abruptly vanish. He grabbed onto Kallas’ shoulders and looked into his pale face.

“Kallas…” Cyrus seemed to struggle for words for a moment. “How are you…here? You…you saved my life, I think.”

Kallas felt a strange sense of calm come over him. It all fit into place, now. “I had to help you remember your name.”

Cyrus looked stunned for a moment, just staring at Kallas in numb silence. “I-I don't….”

Kallas shook his head, grip tightening on Cyrus’ arm. “Those people, your family, they are not important. If they said you had no worth, than they did not _know_ you, Cyrus. They do not get to decide _who_ you are.”

The spellcaster took a deep breath, feeling an overwhelming surge of gratitude for Kallas. “I am…very glad to see you…my…my friend.” He tried a smile on the last word. 

Kallas clapped him on the shoulders. “To the death. In this world, or any other.” 

The forgotten library wasn’t really forgotten at all. Curious adventurers, scholars and treasure seekers had explored so much of it that maps of its location existed. Though, apparently nothing could be taken out, as far as Cam had always heard. The ghost stories always concerned people being stuck inside forever, lost and confused. But the stories also mentioned bounds and bounds of knowledge. It was this tidbit that turned them from Avargard to head east instead.

Boone shouldered her pack, touched the diamond-bladed halberd and, satisfied that it was in place, headed down the boardwalk. People gave her curious glances at the tiny port village. Not even big enough to buy proper supplies, just oats and salt pork. They did not stay long, either. That was good, according to Boone. She still occasionally forgot that she was now blue and found herself getting more and more irate the more the villagers stared at her. 

_Was_ she a celestial now? It abruptly reminded her of trying to detect on Cadron, who was an asamar but had only very trace amounts of celestial to him. As if he were, perhaps, a Fallen celestial—if that were even a thing. Boone couldn’t be sure, of course, but she hadn’t started off as a celestial and now, apparently she was becoming one. So certainly the reverse must also be possible. 

“Dagna,” Boone said quietly, as they left the village and took a walking path to the northeast. “That man that you didn’t like, Cadron. He was an asamar at one time, right?”

The bard scowled. “Apparently. But he gives praise to Asmodeus.”

Boone did a double-take. “And Tribek wasn’t bothered by that?”

Dagna shrugged. “That’s something we did not see eye to eye on.”

“Didn’t you say that Cadron threatened you, as well?” Cam asked, eyes constantly traveling over the treeline. He and Dagna flanked Boone, the youngest of them walking in the middle of a barely-traveled path. It was marked by an uneven, dried-out set of sunken wagon tracks that mostly just made the earth treacherous to walk on. Hardly anyone used this path, from what the merchant at the port had told him, because the entrance to the Duergar city was so close to the Forgotten Tower. It made the area too dangerous for regular folk. That in mind, he and Dagna had made this decision, silently exchanging glances and moving to bodyguard positions around Boone. Drow had not been all they'd seen in the Underdark, after all. Plenty of the darken-dwarves were likely to have connections to Asmodeus. Boone would sell for a pretty penny if they didn't simply execute her first. And now they were down two sets of eyes to look after the girl. _Well, one and a half, I guess._

Boone furrowed her eyebrows. “You told Tribek about that, right?”

“I did,” Dagna said it somewhat stiffly. “But Tribek was my friend and he was in a tough spot. He had to make decisions—“

“You tell _me_ that someone threatened you twice and I will find them and settle it. But Tribek heard that he threatened you and he didn’t do anything?” Boone demanded.

Dagna glared away from both of her companions. “Tribek ran the bard college. He had to make tough decisions.”

“You know what I did notice is that, despite Silver Strings being a brand new upstart community with its own Circle, the Bard College was the biggest and most well-financed building,” Cam said, still looking at the treeline as they walked. “Not any city buildings, the Bard College.”

“He was entrusted to build up the city. He obviously had some worth to Cadron—“

“Dagna,” Boone cut her off, eyes narrowing, “do you hear yourself? Cadron threatened to hurt you _and_ he worships Asmodeus. And Tribek didn’t see any problem with all that?”

The bard glared at the walking path. “I have known Tribek for a long time. Before we went to Ebreosea, he played his fiddle for me. I was one of his professors! He sent me on that mission because he trusted me!”

Boone and Cam exchanged looks over Dagna’s head. 

“Unless it was just a way to get you out of Silver Strings. Then we were held in the dungeons for hours, when Tribek couldn’t be bothered to send a message right when we left,” Boone said, “And then the assassin showed up, oh and then an airship _crashed_ into the city itself—“

“Yeah and _who_ went out into the city when that happened!” Dagna snapped, eyes like green flame. “And who decided to stay in the house and complain that the burning ship and thousands of dead were _inconvenient?_ That was _all_ of you! You ever consider that maybe things like _that_ is why civilians don’t want to help you?”

“Whoa, Dag, hey, look,” Cam started. “We know—“

“You, I get,” Dagna cut him off. “We talked about it, remember? You stuck to what you believed was correct, that we would only get in the way. That we shouldn't choose sides to help _these_ people or _those_ people because of _politics,_ which was kinda ironic coming from you, all things considered. I respected that you could at least tell me that. But acting like Tribek is guilty just because of Cadron--”

“Dagna,” Boone tried again, raising a placating hand. “It is more than that, you _know_ that. Cam’s mother has threatened all of us and works with Asmodeus. If Cam was saying: _well, I’m sure it’s fine._ I would be suspicious of _him_ too. Friends would not just _let_ someone threaten people they cared about.”

“And I’m definitely not saying that, by the way,” Cam threw in. “She might not even be my actual mother. Could just be someone sporting her form. But even if it is, fuck her. She threatens you guys, then she’s threatening me.” 

“What would you have done if someone had threatened Tribek? You would have done something, right? So either Tribek is in on it, or he’s a fucking coward,” Boone told her. “So, not a great friend either way.”

Dagna looked away from both of them, tense and prickly.

“Dagna—“

“I heard you!” 

Boone tried again. “I just want you to understand that we are bringing this up because _we_ care about you. And you deserve friends who would actually _defend_ you anytime, not just when it’s convenient.”

Dagna’s shoulders were stiff and awkward. She said nothing to that, just scowled down at the ground as they walked, looking very troubled. 

They camped that night under the stars. They could see the tower from a small cave they’d sniffed out in a nearby hillside. The stars were bright, clustered in the sky like wreathes of diamonds. Cam looked out as Dagna took her turn prepping rations and heating water in their shared kettle for Boone’s tea. One bottle of liquor remained in the dimensional bag that Cam carried but he didn’t drink. He sat at the mouth of the cave and packed his long-stemmed pipe, lighting it with a press of his finger. The pale smoke wisped around him. 

The moon was bright and orange, a harvest moon. Soon the weather would begin to turn. 

Boone sat close to the fire, cleaning and sharpening her sword. She had thought that Cyrus and Kallas were too quiet to make an impression but the truth was that, now that they were gone….the girl felt empty without them. Perhaps she had disliked Cyrus secretly because of how much he reminded her of herself. Raised to be a tool, a weapon, discarded by his family, maybe he didn’t know who he was. Like Boone was starting to feel that maybe she didn’t know herself at all. She’d thought acting aggressive towards Cyrus, in particular, would establish some sort of control over her situation. She had been told two or three times to _trust Cyrus._ But she hadn't. The harder she tried to control everything, everyone, the tighter the net seemed to close around her. When she looked to the mouth of the cave to where Cam was sitting, half of her wanted very much to just not care what anyone else wanted. 

She had perceived that as his attitude for months. _But that wasn’t it, was it?_ She’d felt so certain about who he was because she had met him when he was Leopold, failing to realize that her perception of Leopold was not reality. Leopold had been playing his role that night. Best behavior for his brother’s sake. They’d exchanged a few smiles. But Leopold kept mostly quiet, save for a spare couple of witty remarks but very tame compared to how Cam functioned during his day-to-day. Boone hadn’t actually _known_ him, after all. She just met his mask. 

_Do I have a mask?_

Maybe she couldn’t actually hide her emotions that well. Maybe she had no mask at all and had just convinced herself that she needed one. As if unconsciously convinced that no one would approve of her if she was only _herself._

Boone glanced at Dagna. The bard was not looking at anyone. She concentrated on warming up water. Maybe that was what bothered her about Dagna too. Dagna had a strong sense of her morals. She had things she _believed_ in. She'd _insisted_ on going down into Ebreosea after the airship crash to help people because the people were civilians, therefore non-combatants, therefore innocent. Boone frowned to herself, cycling through the events in Ebreosea again. There was no denying it, though. That was exactly what had happened. 

_What do I believe in? Did I simply go along with the others? The temple paladins probably would have helped but I didn't._

How did someone believe in anything if they’d never been forced to doubt? Boone had trained at the temple every day as a tiny girl, not even tall enough to lift the sword she now owned. But she had not been treated with suspicion and snide remarks like Kallas. Boone’s father saw her as just a _girl_ to eventually get rid of but Cam’s father saw him as a loose end to _cut_ as soon as his line through Gregor was secured. Brenna had been disowned by her family, though Boone did not know why. 

A sharp ache went through the girl when she thought about Brenna. _If I had just….gotten to know her instead of being so standoffish…I had the chance to make real friends and I threw it away._ And then Brenna had died trying to protect them. 

_”Better him than me!”_ Boone had laughed in Grifto’s bottle at Kallas’ transformation. _Better him than me._ How cruel that must have sounded to them all. But the tiefling had never complained. Not once. 

_And now he’s dead because of me._

Boone drug her fingers into her hair, trying to contain that feeling, something flooding up, trying to burst out. She pressed it down. Sometimes, she still felt like a little girl. A selfish, stupid little girl. Cam and Dagna both seemed aware of their morals. It was Cam who urged the child in the drow city to escape. It was Cam who endured a hug from Hunk when he could have shied away. It was Cam who told the literal King of Hell:_"Well, if you wanna fight my friend, then you'll have to murder me first."_

Boone barely knew anything about Dagna at all. In fact, she couldn’t think of anything except that Corvino had somehow convinced her father that he was a reborn hero or prophet or something. (Pity they hadn’t asked Corvino _where_ he had come across this story.) But of Dagna personally, Boone knew nothing. But she had observed her actions and the bard always tried to help them, bought them each a healing potion that had ended up saving their necks. Dagna had made more than a few astute remarks to not just Boone _("You're so young. Why are you here?")_ but also to Cam and Cyrus. Dagna was patient and thoughtful (she hadn't gotten outwardly angry when Boone was acting out in Grifto's bottle or in the Sanctuary) but could also be sarcastic and funny, rather what Boone had imagined an elder sister might be like. 

Boone peeked above her knees, observing Dagna. Maybe she should try and _understand_ the two of them and why they made the decisions they made. After all, her Temple instructors certainly hadn’t told her what to do if an ancient devil-God stole the souls of your friends. Well, nothing except, “Do the right thing, child.” Lot of good that did. What the hell was the right thing? How could she know what the right thing was when she wasn't even sure what the hell _she_ was anymore!

Maybe she should have asked Kallas. He had been good at asking questions. The detective was insightful and perceptive. Boone wondered if he and Dagna had ever spoken privately. Kallas was clever, more observant than most. He would have known what questions to ask. It—

Cam suddenly stood up in the mouth of the cave, positioning himself in the middle of the opening. “Well, well, well. Hallo again,” Cam intoned loudly, still looking out of the cave, pipe left lightly smoking on the ground. He waved a hand back at the women.

Dagna jumped up, striding for the entrance, and Boone followed, taking her sword drawn to the cave opening. The paladin got that feeling in her mouth again, like stones and moss and the electric air during a storm. “Hey, it’s that sitar-player.”

The sitar-player did not seem to have a sitar anymore. At least, there wasn’t one in sight. Dagna furrowed her eyebrows. “What are you doing here, Thioni?”

Thioni smiled at them in the moonlight and displayed her unarmed hands to them. A bit of dust scattered from her gloves. “I followed you.”

Boone glanced at Cam and Dagna, both looked more suspicious by that statement. Dagna’s eyes darkened and she palmed her rapier. Cam shifted his weight, stretching his fingers as if to prepare them for spells. But Boone fought the urge to spring to the ready, for she knew she had no plan from there. Maybe instead of waiting to follow, she could try asking questions. Information was just as important as combat, right? Kallas was the one who'd observed the other Council members when Boone froze, having suddenly realized she was staring at the tiefling adviser she'd spoken with before her death.

So basic questions first, right? Sure, the woman must have snuck on board or something but....sometimes Kallas had asked very basic-seeming questions that ended up shifting their plans for the better. The little details could make a big difference. And Cam and Dagna seemed so _tense._ Likely to escalate if either sensed any threat. Boone had never really paid much attention until now. Kallas was the cooler head, typically, and Dagna and Cam had both taken council from him when he spoke. _Don't overthink it._ “How did you follow us across the sea?” 

“I made myself hard to see,” Thioni answered, still standing quietly in front of the cave in her green and gold robe and sash. She appeared to still be barefoot and had no visible weapons, pack or instruments.

“How would you know what we can see?” Cam asked her. “You’re blind.”

“For a very long time. But now I can see with the dirt.” 

The three of them, as one, looked at the player’s bare nut-brown feet. They were dusty and her toenails looked like chips of obsidian. Boone got that strange pull again, like an elemental but not. Something almost familiar though she couldn’t explain why. 

“Oh,” Thioni said, as if suddenly surprised. “You found him!” Her sightless eyes went behind them all, to the halberd lying by the fire. “Or rather, he found you.”

Boone stiffened and she found herself stepping forward, raising her sword. “What do _you_ know about Cyrus!”

“I didn't know his name,” Thioni answered. She simply stayed in place with her hands displayed, eyes cloudy in the reflection of Boone's glittering sword. 

“Enough games!” Dagna took a step forward and her rapier danced into the moonlight. _”Why_ are you here!”

Thioni looked at the stone, brown hair hanging in her face over her cloudy eyes. “A long time ago, I wandered into a place I should not have been, not safe for mortals to be in, for a solution that I did not need. Now I see with my feet. My Lady sent me. She told me about a memory. And it brought me to you.”

“Who is your lady?” Boone asked, drawing back a step. She observed how still and _ready_ Cam was to move, how Dagna had a heavy glare in her eyes and the rapier was loose and fluid in her fist.

“The Raven Queen.”

All three of them paused. 

“And who is that?” Boone pressed. 

“Wait,” Cam interrupted, raising a hand, “you went somewhere not safe for mortals? So, somewhere like a fey forest?”

“Very not safe,” Thioni told them. “I explored and fell through the planes of this world and into another. And I met the Queen of Memories.”

“And who the hell is that?” Dagna demanded, circling a little behind her. 

“You fell into another plane and found something you shouldn't have? So you then became blind? Or were you blind from birth?" Cam went right on with his own questions, peering at the blind woman.

"Fever took my eyes in my fourth year, the Fighters of the guild told me. My parents left me with them, presuming I would die. But I did not, just my eyes did. So they taught me to fight. One day, when I grew up, I left the guild to try and find a way to see."

Cam rubbed his jaw, raising a warding hand to Boone and stepped forward. "And I would guess that you found a way...but it wasn't what you were hoping for?"

Her eyes were ghostly in the moonlight when she raised them, seeming to look directly at Cam. "My Lady saved me from the elemental plane, the Great Shaking, and so I did not destroy myself. For that, I serve her."

_Ah, the Elemental Plane._ A large tome opened in Cam's brain, from his days as a child, first coming into his magic and forced to study under Aboken. He had looked at this book, and others like it, hundreds, thousands of times, marked hundreds of pages that all came to life until it reached an ornate inking of a humanoid figure wreathed in flame. Elemental humanoids were fairly rare, typically the product of a union between genie and mortal. But in certain instances, mortals coming into contact with lethal surges of elemental power could _also_ create such creatures. "Are you an earth genasi?” Cam inquired.

Thioni’s face brightened and she pulled off her gloves before displaying her palms to them. The lines of her hands had tiny fissures of light coming through. “I can move with the earth! It’s how My Lady taught me to _see.”_

Cam relaxed, looking more curious now, though his palm stayed on the pommel of his sword. “Ahhh, so that’s how you followed us. Earth genasi can make themselves undetectable. Just like the _Pass without a Trace_ spell,” he explained, nodding to Boone and Dagna. “I had to study a few things about genasi. Some of them become really amazing mercenaries. My mother arranged for Gregor and I to actually meet a fire genasi merc-leader when I was sixteen, I think? Oof, she was _something_ else.”

Boone rolled her eyes. But Dagna finally cracked a smile and seemed to ease back a little.

“They thought you would advise Gregor but your father planned to have you killed.”

Cam did a double-take at the earth genasi, making a disgruntled face. “So…the Lady of Memories saved you from the Great Shaking, huh? I don't think I know who that is.”

Thioni nodded. “She said you should remember your stones.”

“Why did this person send you to us?” Boone wanted to know.

Thioni turned her back to them, pointing with one spindly finger at the Forgotten Tower, dark and ominous in the moonlight. “My Lady needs me to find something for her. She said I would know it when I came upon it. And then she showed me you. I heard your voices in the darkness.” The genasi turned back, gesturing to the three of them. 

“Only us?” Dagna pressed. “Not two others?”

Thioni nodded. “She has already met them.”

All three of them jumped a little. “Met them?” Dagna repeated.

“What do you mean? Where?” Boone asked. “When they were alive?”

The blind woman turned her eyes to the stone floor. “No. They are with her now.” And then she gazed blankly back into their cave, seeming to look right at Cyrus’ halberd. “But he found you.”

Boone took a step back, sheathing her sword and then turned, walking over to the halberd and picking it up. She gazed at the prism-like cuts in the halberd's blade, the shimmering silver metalwork, the glittering diamond gem affixed to it. 

“That is my Lady’s pact to this world,” Thioni told them.

Cam stepped back and gestured for the genasi to come in before he recalled she was blind. “All right, you’ve got our attention. Come to the fire. Tell us about your Lady.”

“Some parts are short but others are very, very long.”

Dagna waited for the genasi to pass her before she followed, rapier still out. “Well, if this tower is as haunted as the ghost stories say, maybe we’ll have time.”

\------------------------------


	8. Divine Intervention

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So I finally relistened to Season 04 completely and I've been going through and making corrections to the details.
> 
> But ep 184 kinda implies that that moment was where/when the darkness began that is present in Irulan? And Ep 218 just placed Kallas in Irulan. Ahhhh!!!! But I'm thinking that maybe the remaining three might be trapped already? Ahhhhhh!
> 
> The first bit is based around episode 178/179  
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> 
> Music: Lost by Deadzone: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SVGD1DGIe7U&list=PLQuOKHNudkme-P2XykOQOMLhdu_WjLR7A&index=101&t=0s  
\----------------------------------
> 
> A sandy shadow formed for just a flash behind them, the familiar slope of the shoulder, the shabby armor, told him it was Cam. The grubby shade was turning to Kallas to say: _”I dunno what they were expecting. I mean, it’s basically an obstacle course and the poor bastard has no depth perception.”_  
\------------------------------------

The decisions were made. 

There was nothing else to be done. Cam meant it when he said he hoped he’d see her again. She could read it in his eyes. Hopefully soon. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, closing her fingers around the doorknob. _Hopefully soon. Please let it be soon._

“C’mon Cyrus, we’ll get to know each other better, right? If I’m gonna write some songs and shit, I gotta ask you a bunch of personal questions. Only for the songs, I promise. Have you ever played Fuck, Marry, Kill?” 

"I am not very good at games but I will try." Cyrus shook Kallas' hand and gave a nod to Boone.

“He’s a _great_ artist,” Cam threw in. The others laughed but Cam felt like there was a sack of bricks on his chest, watching her collect her meager belongings. _I can’t go back. I can’t. They’ll try to use me to kill people._ He wished he could _will_ her to understand. But then, she probably did and that was….something….something sharper. “Cyrus,” he heard himself say instead, “hey, you know. All that stuff I said to Dagna about being welcome back, you know? That’s, uh, that goes for you too. You know? We don’t always see eye to eye. Ha? But you’re a good guy. Take care of yourself. Both of you.”

_They’re going to use me to kill even more people. I can’t walk back in to Jildos._

He had to harden his heart, like he had every other time. It was never a good idea to get attached. It was against every instinct he’d grafted into himself. And still, he could not seem to help it: “But find us afterwards.”

And then Dagna opened the door. The stench of rot and blood hit her like a brick wall.

Her face went white as muslin. “Oh no. Oh no. No. _No!”_ She ran out.

Cyrus, right behind her, saw it second. “Oh shit. Someone found us.” His halberd appeared in his grip as he strode out the door. Fires were burning, the tents were burning and copper was thick in the air. Five bodies torn to shreds and….

“Corvino! No! Hey! No-no-no!” She threw herself to her knees and grabbed him. “Corvino!”

“Oh fuck,” Cam muttered and he barged out the door, sprinting to the bard and taking a breath to steady himself as he went to his knees and laid his hands upon Corvino’s chest. The _pulse_ went through him but the halfling did not respond. Fuck, this was Dagna’s friend. Nevermind how Cam felt about the guy personally. He tried again, another _pulse,_ but nothing stirred in the halfling. 

Kallas’ eye was caught by the flames. He peered through the trees and pulled his crossbow to his arm. “There’s a rider coming this way!” 

Cyrus saw the banners. “Those flags, Cin Amon and House Macwell….”

Boone stiffened. “What?” She went to Cyrus, following where he pointed with his halberd.

"House Macwell does not typically fly its own banners in war. When a House leads troops to war, they fly the flag of Jildos. This is....odd. Strange. Unless House Macwell made an independent alliance with Cin Amon....?" And the idea of _that_ was even stranger. 

Dagna whirled up like a snake as the rider slowed his horse. Smoke was rolling down through the trees and an orange light was flaring from the south. Her eyes were hot green flames as she stared down the single rider as he primly pulled out a scroll to read. About half a mile back, a dozen more riders were approaching. She ignored all of it and drew her rapier.

Cam stood up, peering into the hazy smoke and in the glinting lights, he _saw_ the familiar sigil. “Oh no, that’s not good. Hey, uh, guys, I need to leave—“

“By order of Cin Amon and House Macwell, Leopold Macwell shall accompany us to the first garrison to meet with your Lady Mother, where you will be placed in power as Grand Steward of House Macwell. By your choice or ours, you will be coming with us on this day.” The rider gave a significant glance to everyone around Cam. "What say you?"

Cam mimed looking puzzled. “Who is Leopold? Sounds like some dead guy to me.”

“My Lord Macwell, I would respectfully advise you to comply. There is no need for the rest of your friends to meet a bitter fate.”

Cam locked up. _Fuckfuckfuck._ No doubt that meant they’d kill everyone else if they had to. And there was a fucking _army_ headed by his mother back there. He couldn’t fight them all and _every_ fucking one of them would die and the only way to stop it would be to _go—_

Dagna turned around and looked him right in the eye, as if she heard his doubt. “You're not going.” She pivoted neatly and pointed her rapier at the messenger’s kneecap. Suddenly all the adrenaline and rage and sadness were bubbling up at once. The one thing Cam couldn’t do was return to Jildos. Like a death sentence, a mask with spikes in the eyes. The one thing Cam wouldn’t do was the one thing this rider demanded of them: _Turn him over, or we will take him by force._ “He’s _not_ going with _you!”_

At her words, Kallas raised his crossbow at the rider. Cyrus raised his halberd and let frosting ice sharpen the edge to a razor. Boone drew her daggers, prepping to throw. 

The rider let his eye trace them all before going back to Cam. “My Lord Macwell, I beseech you again to reconsider. No one need die for the inevitable.”

“It’s cute that that’s what you think is going to happen,” Dagna snarled.

The one thing Cam wouldn’t give up was his freedom. She respected that about him. He would make a great bard. He might have been stubborn on certain things, just like she could be, but there was little cruelty to him. He was a _fighter._ He was a survivor, a sorcerer, a negotiator. He was inventive and creative and kind and so much _more_ than the warlord prince that his parents wanted!

Maybe that was what made her suddenly pull out the bottle. She might have saved such an incredible wish for any detrimental circumstance. She even heard Kibs whispering about a way to help but Dagna looked at Cam and saw her friend’s stricken expression. The one thing he feared, having to face his family, to be forced into a gilded cage, a _puppet._ A mask with spikes in the eyes. And now they were here to _take him_ from her. Like they had already taken Corvino. _No. Not again._

Dagna uncorked the bottle holding the jinn. “Ishtox, I call upon you!” The fire flashed in her eyes. “Rain destruction upon this army! Wreak havoc on them all!”

Dagna took her last turn on watch just before dawn, thinking of those events. Barely a week ago, now. And still, the timing felt odd, just a few days or a lifetime ago? She wasn’t sure why exactly. Like she were looking at the sky but the sky was _wrong_ too. But Dagna was not sure how to explain that feeling. Likely, it was just reactionary because of everything that had happened in the last few days. But something just seemed...out of place. There was no sign of Talisa Macwell or devils. They’d run into no other drow, save for the ones at the Gravity Hearth. And that seemed odd too. 

_It’s probably just grief. We are all grieving. We just didn’t notice, with our luck._

Boone was taking the loss the hardest. Dagna suspected that the young paladin had not expected to lose _both_ Kallas and Cyrus. Perhaps she’d thought her god would step in. But, well, like Kallas had said, the Jazirian aspect of Boone certainly hadn’t done much for Cyrus and so he expected no supernatural aid. And he got none. Asmodeus and the horrible _hands,_ reaching out and _snapping_ Kallas’ neck and then _dragging_ him beneath….

_If he had crushed his gem though? I mean, Boone’s alternate had a different name, surely? If Kallas and his alternate had switched places instead then maybe they both would have been safe from the contract…._

Dagna tried not to think about that. There was no way of knowing if it would have worked, after all. It had all happened so fast. Absently, she reached for her satchel, touching the topaz gem through the fabric. _Maybe we should try one? I wonder if Tinker only got to switch back and forth because his alternate was dead?_

Where was that little bastard now? _Godfuckingdamn fucking Tinker._ Right, he’d had to flee, before Asmodeus found another way to murder him. One minute with Kallas, the next, leaving. He could have at least given one of them that fancy dagger he used to try and murder Boone. 

Dagna looked out the cave again. The moment had been so sudden, so fast, Tinker had appeared in the air above the teenager:

And then Cyrus was suddenly _phasing_ in front of her. His eye flashed silver and his skin _lit up_ like snowy scales. In that moment, he’d looked like a literal angel on the warpath. _Oh, Cyrus, the Angel of Vengeance. That would be a good song too. Oh, or of Dreams?_ He’d been so breath-taking, so incredibly beautiful, like flashing, carved ice, like something achingly ethereal.

Oh Cyrus, all he’d seemed to want from his life….was a place in it. That was the saddest part about him. That no matter where he was, he seemed to feel out of place with himself. He wanted to _serve._ There was nothing wrong with that. He was a soldier and he certainly wasn’t stupid. Boone had thrown all kinds of accusations at him over these last months but he had never struck her. He never reprimanded. Cyrus had only minimal energy to waste on fighting with the paladin. _Maybe if they’d somehow worked together better…._

Dagna rubbed her forehead. _I’m sorry, Cyrus. I wish I could have helped you both._

The dawn seemed more purple, more bruised, than any other shade.

“Did you meet a woman in a white mask in this place?” Kallas asked Cyrus as the two made their way from the lake.

Cyrus frowned. “A woman, no. A white mask, yes. It was long, as you see on the doctors sometimes.” He made a beak with his hand in front of his nose.

Kallas thought about that for a minute, stepping deftly through the ash. “I was not brought to you by accident, Cyrus. I have been wandering the shadowplanes for…well,” and the tiefling gave an annoyed glance to the non-sky, “I cannot know the time. I feel as though time has little meaning here. I saw shadows of memories in the ash and sand. Did you also see this?”

Cyrus nodded. His mismatched eyes were stark against the dim of the Shadowfell. “I was trying to….remember. And sometimes things would form in the ash but I couldn’t…._remember_ enough.”

“But as far as you know, you only saw things related to _you?_ Not anyone else?”

Cyrus frowned at the sand. “As far as I remember.” The warlock sighed, “Though you might want to take that with a grain of salt.”

“Or sand,” Kallas offered.

Cyrus cracked a smile.

“What else did you see? You mentioned a mask?”

The human nodded, fidgeting a little, like one who was accustomed to having a weapon, suddenly being without. “It was like a raven but big. Very big. Like an orc. And it had a mask with a beak, which I guess makes sense.”

“Did you know who or what this creature was?” Kallas kept his eyes moving ahead and around them, fingers on the grip of his rapier. It was no longer glowing and the blade was shining silver with no hint of rust at all. The feather, however, appeared to be gone. 

Cyrus’ gaze fell. “I am….not certain. I think it was the Raven Queen but….she was different than I imagined.” He reached back as if to touch his halberd and remembered that it was gone. “My halberd, it’s a family heirloom, the gem on it was cursed like my dragon eye.” He slid his fingers around the bone of his eyesocket. The patch was in his pocket. 

Before, he’d had to wear it because, of course, his eye was cursed. And sometimes the changes were unpredictable and his eye would somehow take on the…._aspect_ of whatever the curse turned out to be. It was dangerous for him to even _look_ at a family member full on. They had likely enjoyed that, grinding him down like that. Cyrus was the youngest of all his brothers, last in line to inherit and content to fight and perhaps learn to support his brothers. They made sure to remind him that _he_ had killed their mother whenever Cyrus annoyed them. He was the _expendable_ brother.

But after that fateful day, fourteen years old and being invited along with his brothers to defend their lands for meager coin. The arrow that came streaking out and buried itself in his _eye,_ everything blurred and then nothing. Darkness.

Darkness. 

And when he woke weeks later, his eye had _burned_ and he accidentally set the nurse alight. It felt like his skull were splitting open for months following. The different shades of color had taught him what to expect from the day. Orange would be the crackling, fiery burning itch underneath the eyepatch and if he got to actually _use_ it, then it would be seared afterwards and would likely water all night. The green eye would be constantly seeping, the acidic pool gleamed and _boiled._ His eye would feel raw as a blister if he got to use it. Actually attempting to _see_ through the eye was basically impossible. It was like trying to see through embers. So his eyepatch had been very necessary. 

But this silver eye was different. He’d _felt_ the eye shift, different from every other color, and he seemed to have _control_ over it. It made him feel _stronger_ somehow. There was no weeping, no throbbing pain, no headaches, no pulsing veins like the necrotic-black eye. And his sight was basically unhindered, as if he had his own eye back but for a very faint silvery sheen that his right eye detected that his mortal left eye couldn’t seem to make sense of. 

“I always wondered if the gem and my eye were connected somehow. I didn't even notice that the gem was changing colors, at first. I was presented with the weapon when I turned fifteen.” 

Three months after the initial accident, his father had taken him to the shabby Grand Hall with his brothers. There, the man had brought out a long wooden case and laid it down upon the table. This case had formally resided over the mantle of the Hall’s massive fireplace. 

“Cyrus,” the man intoned, gesturing his youngest son forward. “I believe we may finally have a place for you. Once every generation, someone is chosen to carry our family weapon. We believe you are best suited to wield it. And you are more than adequate with a lance. So I have decided that you will enter formal training at the Academy at the end of the month.”

Those words from his father’s mouth were all wrong. His brothers hadn’t looked angry to not be chosen. They even seemed…._happy_ for him. Even his father had seemed pleased and had thrown a feast to celebrate. It was the only time his father had ever celebrated him. 

“The timing of that is very interesting,” Kallas said, looking thoughtful. “The weapon was bound to you, you could summon it and the gem changed colors like your eye. Did they tell you how you got a cursed eye? You remember being hit with an arrow but that was it?”

Cyrus shrugged. “The maester told me that my eye had festered with some sort of magical ailment that had already begun by the time I was brought to him by my brothers. But the halberd seemed bound to it. And then I was sent away for training. That was when they tapped me to be a warcaster. I’d never studied much magic until then.”

“And none of your instructors ever asked about the weapon or your eye?” Kallas inquired. 

Cyrus shook his head. “Not particularly. I tried to keep it hidden and wrapped because people become very, eh, superstitious when you tell them you have a cursed eye.”

Kallas frowned. “The Raven you spoke about. I met something similar, a dark woman that I think was the Raven Queen. I believe she would be most closely related to Zuletha, among Naluri’s common gods, and her Shadows and Memories. She knew who I was. And she knew who you were. She told me that you had died once for us, as in Boone, I assumed, and once for this raven creature. If the cursed eye and the halberd were connected, then it would be logical to think that it might be through the same deity.”

Cyrus stilled, for just a moment, closing his eyes before he forced himself to walk again. “Every generation they chose someone to carry the halberd because they said it was blessed but none of them had cursed eyes. Most of them died in battle. I could not hope for more honor than that.”

“Unless your brothers bound your death to a god so that none of them would have to make that sacrifice,” Kallas added. “But I imagine something like that would depend on the details of this curse and the strength of the magic. And if this tradition your father spoke of has any partial-truth to it.”

Cyrus rubbed his hands down his face. He had never wanted to look at that possibility. It had always lingered in the back of his mind that perhaps the friendly fire hadn't been as friendly as they'd claimed. He had tried to banish that but now it crept back. “Well, this silver eye doesn’t hurt at all, so whether it is from Jazirian, Bahamut or the Raven Queen, it is a step in the right direction. And I seem to have perfect depth perception again.” 

A sandy shadow formed for just a flash behind them, the familiar slope of the shoulder, the shabby armor, told him it was Cam. The grubby shade was turning to Kallas to say: _”I dunno what they were expecting. I mean, it’s basically an obstacle course and the poor bastard has no depth perception.”_

Kallas laughed. 

“I don’t remember that,” Cyrus objected.

The shadow of their friend vanished like smoke and Kallas had to quickly get hold of himself, grinning. “That was in the Sanctuary in the Scarlet Forest. Dagna and Boone went and then you went through the pounding pillars and spikes and—“

“—and then remembered I could just step _through_ it. Right.” Cyrus sighed and then managed a chuckle at himself. “I would ask how I could have forgotten but, well.”

"Eh, Boone didn't do it either." Kallas saw creatures, denizens, on the path about a half-mile ahead and so he led Cyrus away from what served as a road, off into a rocky outcropping, ducking behind some massive boulders.

“Hallo, friends!” A voice sang out, startling in the quiet. “Wait up, I see you! Hallo!” 

They both jumped. Kallas drew his rapier and from around the rock appeared a grey-skinned tiefling. Her horns were eight inches long and followed the curve of her skull. One of them had a chip at the tip. She had black hair bound up in gold scarf and she wore several layers of colorful fabrics. It all appeared grayer in the dim of the Shadowfell but the tiny bells sewn into the scarf sang happy, if muted, little vibrations. She had bangles on her wrists, upper arms and four sewn into her gear above her rapier hilt like a ring of keys. (Three of the bangles had single small talismans. One had an hourglass attached to it, another, a tiny door, one had a miniature bottle and the fourth was bare.)

“Hallo, my friends! I am Velicia! Don’t attack, it’s all right!” She was waving her empty hands about at them. “I am here to help you!”

Cyrus’ silver eye glittered but he only shifted his stance, a half-step to the side of Kallas and raised his fists to prepare for a spell. “Who are you?”

“Do not worry, my friends! I am a messenger! The Queen sent me to help you until I can remember my name.”

“You just told us your name,” Kallas reminded her. His sword was quiet, no shimmering colors. 

“Oh, this is a name I choose for now,” the tiefling dismissed, waving her hand and chuckling. “I have another one somewhere but I don’t remember it yet. So for now, I am Velicia. Hallo! The Lady doesn’t want you wandering into any Shadar-kai and the domains of the dreaded ones are not as far from each other as they might seem!” She seemed to slow down enough to take a real look at Kallas. “Oh! You are a tiefling! You are so pale! Does this help you with humans? Or are you very sick, my friend?”

“This is….my skin,” Kallas told her, crossing his arms.

“Very luminous, my friend! Don’t worry, I won’t say your names. My Lady advised me not to say your names. Big ears are listening. So do not worry! You are safe with Velicia! How lucky I am! You both are so handsome!”

Kallas grimaced. Cyrus stared at her before glancing at Kallas and, well, the detective didn’t seem ready to escalate, so he held back. 

The tiefling opened up a bag at her hip. “You need a weapon for now, yes? The mismatched eyes are very stylish, for a human!” She winked at his silver eye and then pulled a spear out of her satchel. It was eight feet long with a ten inch blade and a shining cross-section of some glittering silver metal shaped like wings. “My Lady tells me that this one is not as nice as your last one but for now, better than nothing, yes?”

“Ah, thank you,” Cyrus managed, surprised but, well, it was supposedly from the Raven Queen and he _did_ need a weapon. So he took the spear to test the heft and weight of it. It was lighter than it looked. He gave it a few practice spins, before tapping the ground with the butt.

“You thank the Queen, yes? No need to thank Velicia, I am just a messenger! The Lady does not usually entreat with those she watches.” And here, Velicia seemed to settle to herself and looked at them with her coal-dark eyes. “But things are now in motion that cannot be undone.”

As one, Kallas and Cyrus both looked at her instead of the spear. “What do you mean?” Kallas asked.

Velicia rubbed her hands together, it made the bangles on her wrists jingle. “So, have you ever heard of very angry sort of guy called Asmodeus?”

-  
-  
-


	9. The Tower

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Music Box = Me and the Devil: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OGtMQYr1YEY
> 
> \---------------  
“Not one of us would have traded him for Tinker, that’s for damn sure,” Cam added but he reached over and clapped Boone on the shoulder. “Brenna’s gonna be pissed when she finds out. She’s gonna end up kicking the shit out of Asmodeus just so she can kick the shit out of Kallas for being such a good goddamn idiot.”
> 
> \----------------

That morning, Thioni stepped out of the cave first, going to a mound down the path and moving the earth to reveal a set of shortswords. They were gleaming steel, tipped in obsidian and she hooked them to her belt on her left side. 

“Where’s your sitar?” Cam asked her. 

“Oh, in my bag,” she told him, tugging out a simple-looking brown leather sack and looping the straps around her belt. Then she reached inside of it but rather than the sitar, she pulled out a plate of bacon. “Do you want some? 

“Where did you get that?” Cam felt compelled to ask. 

“A pig, I think,” she said, offering the wooden platter. There were about a dozen slices, cooked but not hot. 

Cam eyed it and then shrugged and took three slices. Dagna laughed but took two. Boone held up a warding hand and shook her head. Thioni ate three. The platter instantly refilled with cooked bacon as soon as the slices were picked up. 

"Oh, I kinda like that," Cam mused, rubbing his jaw.

The grounds of the library were empty of life, though the sprawling compound was big enough for quite a bit of it. Two small watch towers guarded a moated entrance. The trenches were dry and empty of any pikes, however. The bridge was also folded up into its door. 

“Well, shit.” Cam examined the ropes and chains from the stone platform but it all appeared to be in excellent condition. 

“Damn, right? Where’s Kallas when you need him? I don’t think my little handbow will get a bolt deep enough in the wood to tug it.”

“Didn’t we steal some crossbows from the drow? Check the bag,” Boone reminded them.

Dagna pointed at the genasi. “Can you go through walls? Or climb up stone? Earth is your element, right?”

“Wait a second,” Boone amended and pointed to the bottom of the dry moat. Something was shimmering in the sunlight. “What is that?”

Dagna, Cam and Thioni all appeared to try and follow her gaze. “What is what, Boone?” Cam asked.

Boone sat on the stone platform and hopped down into the moat. “There’s something down here, hold on.” The paladin scrambled up and went to the shining runes on the bottom of the stones in the moat. “There’s something written on the stone. I think it might be in celestial.” She knelt down and brushed off the dirt and pebbles over a glimmering mark. “It’s celestial for _water.”_

Suddenly, the dried out mud in the moat cracked apart. Water began to flood up through it.

“Boone! Get up here!” Cam commanded, kneeling down and reaching his hand down into the moat. 

Boone didn’t hesitate, whirling around and sprinting up to snag Cam’s broad hand and he pulled her up. The moat filled far faster than it should have. The water was perfectly crystal blue, like aquamarines. But the door still did not come down. 

Dagna studied it. “Maybe we have to actually pull the door down? Or maybe there’s a password?”

“Or, do you remember the pool in the temple in the drow city?” Boone said. “We went through it and underneath, there was a room. Maybe we need to jump in the water?”

“Oh, good point, magic water,” Cam mused. “All right, let’s do it.”

Boone started to step forward but Dagna reached her hand out. “Maybe you should let one of us go first, Boone. You know, just in case.” 

The paladin scowled. “I can handle some magic water.”

“Yeah, last time you went in magical water, you came out blue,” Cam reminded her. 

“I will do it,” Thioni piped up. And before anyone could argue, the genasi bounded up to the platform and jumped right off. She hit the water with a splash that seemed disproportionately large to her relative size, and then vanished. A few seconds later, they heard her shout: “I made it! I am behind the drawbridge door!” She stuck her arm out of an arrow slot and waved.

“Good,” Dagna huffed and then she held out her hand to Boone. The paladin took it and then offered her free hand to Cam. 

“On three?” The sorcerer suggested as he took it.

“Three!” Dagna immediately shouted and she jumped. The others tumbled after her and they went through the water and were hitting the stone floor behind the drawbridge. 

“All right,” Cam said, pushing himself up and shaking his arms out. “Good work, Boone. Thioni, nice work jumping into imminent death, you’re going to do really well with us for a really short amount of time, I imagine.”

“Just ask Cyrus,” Dagna said with a wan sort of sigh.

“Ha, he was pretty good at that ‘jumping into imminent death' business. Almost as good as Kallas.”

Boone smiled, softer. “None of us were as good as Kallas.”

Dagna looked up at the paladin. Something about the girl’s expression was gentler. Dagna gave her forearm a squeeze. “Ha, you're not wrong."

Boone glanced aside, looking a little awkward at being caught with expressions. 

“Not one of us would have traded him for Tinker, that’s for damn sure,” Cam added but he reached over and clapped Boone on the shoulder. “Brenna’s gonna be pissed when she finds out. She’s gonna end up kicking the shit out of Asmodeus just so she can kick the shit out of Kallas for being such a good goddamn idiot.” He started walking away from the drawbridge towards a set of massive double-doors. “Also, I dunno what kind of traps and shit might be in this place so we should probably keep on top of that.”

Thioni whispered along beside them. Her bare feet made no sound on the cold stone. “Save Brenna. Isn’t that what he told you?” The genasi tilted her ear at Boone. 

“Look, I don’t _like_ that you do that, okay?” Boone told her, scowling. “Yes, that’s what he told me but it’s not making me trust you more so you should stop.”

“That was how the other remembered you. The Raven Queen in the flesh.” 

“I don’t think you’re on the same page, Boone,” Cam told her flippantly, gesturing to the genasi. “If she serves the Queen of the Dead than she probably knows all kinds of random, weird shit. Out of context, nothing she says will make sense.” He directed his gaze to the genasi. “And, hey, no offense, but it sounds like maybe you got your brain addled while you were in the Elemental Plane? Or was it the Raven Queen taking your memories that did that?” 

She simply shrugged, not looking bothered. “I think I died? I don’t really remember.” 

“Join the club,” Boone groused.

Dagna walked up to the first set of double-doors, wooden and, at least, fifteen feet across. She saw no pins, wires or other physical traps.

Cam followed, laying his palm on the wood to feel for magic but there was no answering touch back. “Seems mundane,” he shrugged and he grabbed on to one of the pull rings. The bard grabbed the other and they jerked on the doors.

The heavy doors ground against the rough stone and then swung open. A stone hallway, dotted with torches, stretched about eighty feet from them before it seemed to open.

It was very quiet, eerily undisturbed as they slipped through the ghostly hall.

The room at the end was, perhaps, forty feet across but in the center stood a chest-high pedestal. On it was a music box, open, with two figurines posed as if dancing. One in a trim-cut, military uniform, the other in a flowing gown made of iridescent feathers.

Behind this pedestal was a curiously wide staircase. It was more of a platform, ten feet wide and it spiraled up to the ceiling like a lighthouse, at least a hundred feet above them. It was all in pristine condition, not a speck of dust. Boone went to the ramp, peering around with her torch. The railings of the stairs were also made of a white stone and had been expertly carved with scenes of couples dancing in various garb. 

Dagna went to the music box, looking all over it before she gingerly touched it. Nothing happened but she could not remove it from the pedestal. The tiny emerald-encrusted gold feet of the box were secured to the stone. “Hey, Cam—what’s the magic feeling like in here?”

The sorcerer was examining the chamber at large. There were no obvious exits, no windows and no other doors. But there was definitely magic. Though it felt…..dispersed. 

“Like…maybe it needs a command of some kind? Or an action, in order to manifest.” He wandered up the ramp but at the top the platform ended at a bare wall. The ceiling was a pointed roof made of painted glass panels. It illuminated Dagna and Boone down below.

Thioni whispered up beside him and reached out to touch the smooth stone. This wall had no carvings at all. “I can’t feel any open chambers beyond. This is solid stone for a long way.”

“Oh, looks like I can wind this thing!” Dagna called up to them. 

“Hey, these carvings on the railings go all the way up, right?” Boone was halfway up the ramp but she had no problem seeing him above her.

“Yep, they’re up here too!” He called down to her. “Okay, hold on, before you wind that thing, just in case this is some horrible trap or whatever.” Cam waved to the genasi and strode down the wide platforms. 

When all four were back at the stone pedestal, Dagna lightly touched the brass knob and gave it three turns. The two figures spun on their little posts. The music was grinding, smokey, strange but with a consistent, heavy beat. It was likely stored in some kind of magical way, as the music box seemed devoid of any actual functional pieces. 

It was Boone that saw the shimmers of light on the stone carvings. “Hey, look!” 

The light was iridescent, a pearly blue and as the music played, the shimmer danced over the carvings, coming all the way to the bottom, nearly at their feet. The floor tried to light up, but couldn’t. When the music stopped, the blue shimmers on the railings faded.

Dagna wound it again, five turns this time. They approached the platforms carefully to watch the shimmers of blue light illuminate the carvings. Thioni raced up the stone ramp to check the blank, smooth wall at the top. But it was still bare. The lights definitely traveled from the top to the bottom though. 

“All right, I might be wrong here,” Dagna began, “but maybe we need to….dance?”

Cam grimaced. “Down the platforms?”

“Like the carvings,” Boone said, pointing at the railings. “Yeah? You said it needed some kind of activation?”

“The magic feels _dispersed,”_ Cam agreed. “There’s tons of magic in this place, in this room, but there’s no focus to the energy. It’s just _there._ Like it’s waiting for something. So, yeah, I mean, you could use motions as activations for spells. It could be dancing. Just kind of a weird way to lock your foyer.”

Dagna looked amused by that. “Hmmm, well, we don’t have any other ideas, right? I’m in. Judging from the carvings and the music box, I probably need someone to help me with this. I learned a lot of dances at the Bard College so I can help you guys.”

Cam pointed at Thioni and Boone. “One of you can dance, right?”

“I don’t dance,” Boone huffed. She glanced at Thioni. “What about you?”

The blind girl shook her head. “Never with another person.”

“Fuckin hell, where’s Cyrus when I need him. All right.” Cam heaved a big sigh and got up, beginning to uncoil his belt. “I’ll do it.” He removed his sword and shield and held them out to Boone. “Hold onto this stuff for a sec, eh?” 

Dagna took the hint and quickly did the same. She wrapped her belt around her rapier and handed it to Boone for safekeeping. Cam stretched in his gear and headed for the platform. Dagna followed him, shaking the sudden pins and needles from her fingertips.

“Are you sure _you_ can dance?” Boone called at him, clearly skeptical as she bowled the shields together and put Cam’s broadsword and Dagna’s slender rapier in the crook of her arm.

“Can’t be any worse than you,” Cam shot back. He waved to the bard. “C’mon Dag, let’s just do it. What’d’ya think is best? Ballroom tango? Elven waltz? What?”

"Chicken Dance only, sorry, my friend." Dagna couldn't completely quell the sudden and ridiculous urge to laugh as she examined the room again as they wound up the staircase. “It’s pretty wide, vaguely circular. Basic waltz would probably be simplest so long as one of us doesn’t tumble over the rail. Do you actually know any waltzes?” At the top, they both stood a little awkwardly for a moment in the middle of the platform.

“Not specifically,” Cam said flippantly and closed the distance, taking her hand in his own. 

Dagna suddenly did not quite meet his eyes when she chuckled a bit to herself. “So if massive blades come slicing out, I’ll try and teleport us back to that blank wall.” And then Dagna leaned towards the railing to call out: “All right, Boone! Wind the music box!” Dagna heard the crank, even up this far away. 

“Relax, I trust you.” Cam’s tone was airy and dismissive. He stepped into her, sliding his palm to her waist and the music began. 

Barely three steps and Dagna blinked, seeming pleased. The ease of his rhythm and the surety of his step as they seamlessly moved together down the platform was _practiced._ “You’ve actually done this before, eh?”

Cam rolled his eyes, grumbling, “Yeah, well, nobles, you know? Gregor and I both had to learn as soon as we turned twelve.”

“Not bad. You coulda just said so but not bad,” Dagna laughed and relaxed a little, letting him guide her, perfectly in sync to the heavy beat and grainy violins of the music box. It was a little heady, still. Fighting together was one thing but this abruptly felt different. Her heart was beating a little quicker than she felt was strictly necessary and his palm at her waist was warm as a brand. 

When they reached the bottom, for just a moment, Dagna felt Cam press his fingers up against her own, just a split-second of extra pressure and she automatically pressed back. Just a moment and then he pulled away.

The stone pedestal in the middle of the floor lifted, spun and then dropped out. They all felt the tower tremble and then the stone Cam was standing on vanished. Dagna lunged for him, grabbing onto his armor. She hit the floor and he dangled in open air for just a moment and then all the stones in the floor turned to blackened ash. 

They fell fifty feet but were cushioned by several more feet of ash. Dagna found when she accidentally kicked one, that apparently stone pillars were underneath the ash. It was a miracle they hadn’t hit the pillars and broken their damn necks. 

“Boone?” Cam was casting around for the paladin as he tried to hold himself still so he wouldn’t sink. “Boone! Where are you!” 

Dagna pulled herself on top of the pillar she’d kicked and saw a hollow of ash start to seep downward. “Oh! Oh! Oh! There! Boone! Boone?!” 

The paladin was struggling to surface in her heavy armor but Cam struck out furiously to reach her, grabbing the teenager and hauling her up to the surface. She broke through with a gasp, dusted in grey over the blue luster of her face. She still had their shields and swords, clutched in her arm in a deathgrip. Dagna leaned out from her pillar to take Cam’s free hand and pull them in to her. “Real hero for keeping hold of these, I tell you what.” Dagna beamed at Boone, accepting her rapier and shield.

Thioni was standing on a pillar as well. “There are two more pillars under the ash.”

There appeared to be no doors or windows. One torch was lit about ten feet above them, casting long shadows over the four. Thioni pointed out the locations of the stone columns under the ash and Cam and Boone each went to one. Barely four inches under the top layer, Boone found hers and scrambled on top of it. Cam then separated from her to go to the last. As soon as his weight settled upon it, they all felt the floor beneath them _shift_ and then the ash was sifting away? Draining, perhaps?

They watched it sift like an hourglass for nearly fifteen feet before Thioni saw the top of a circular door. It was a bright emerald green with a glowing mark in the center of it. As soon as this mark was exposed to the air, the circular door seemed to _shudder_ and then actually crinkled inward, as if it were made of metal and that metal were being bent by a large, invisible hand. 

“That’s probably not good,” Thioni told them, pointing. 

“Oh shit, oh shit,” Dagna fluttered. “I got it!” She shot her handbow and the shaft hit the glowing mark but it had no effect. 

"I had to touch the last one!" Boone yelled out.

The circular edges of the door curled inward, like great large fingers pressing and twisting it like an apple dumpling. There seemed to be no separation from the stone either, so definitely a magical door.

“Motherfuck,” Dagna said and then scrambled off her pillar. She landed in three feet of ash, slogging through it. The ash stopped sifting away. The room rumbled again and started to turn, the entire tower began to swivel. “Oh come on!” Well, there was no way for her to climb back up now. She crashed over the ash, trying to keep in line with the door, which was now turning away from her.

Ash began to fall in from above. 

The earth genasi leapt off her pillar next to Dagna and clenched her fists. Thioni _slammed_ her bare foot onto the stone. The door _rippled_ for a moment, as if the stone walls were trying to pull it back to a circle, and the ash seemed to become somehow more _solid,_ allowing Dagna to run forward unimpeded. She darted her fingers into the twisted metal and touched the glowing mark. 

The room stopped turning, the ash stopped falling on them and the door flattened back out against its wall. Cam and Boone climbed down their pillars and joined them at the door. 

“Okay, are we ready to get suffocated?” Dagna dusted off her gear. “Why does this ash look purple? Just the bad lighting?”

“I’ll try this door.” Cam rubbed his hands together and stepped forward. The middle of the door had a tiny ship’s wheel underneath the glowing mark (which Boone recognized as celestial for: _stop)_ and so he spun it. The door clicked and unlatched.

Cam opened it slowly but to their collective surprise, a modest library greeted them. Just one tower, from the looks of it. Shelves lined the walls, all heavy with tomes and books chained to pedestals and reading tables. 

But one object on the back wall caught Cam’s attention immediately. It caught all of them, even Thioni.

It was a large portrait of a young man’s profile. He had brown hair and a blue eye. He had on his studded plate and a wicked-looking halberd. A single canary was sitting on his shoulder as the young man appeared to be observing a blank canvas and easel in the background.

“It’s Cyrus,” Boone said, sounding about as stunned as Cam felt. 

Dagna looked sidelong at Thioni, suspicious, but the genasi looked troubled too. “How could a painting of Cyrus be here?” The bard professor slipped into the room, looking at all the very ordinary-seeming shelves and books as she approached the portrait. It was an extraordinary likeness. “I don’t suppose it’s a painting that changes depending on who’s looking at it?”

Cam and Boone followed Dagna, examining the painting. Behind them all, the door slammed shut. Boone whirled around and made a soft sound, grabbing onto Dagna and pointing.

On the inside of the door, there was another portrait. A young man in profile with brown hair and a silver eye, a skeletal canary with a blood-flecked beak was sitting on his shoulder. Six other skeletal canaries feasted on corpses in the background. His armor was shredded, they could see his deserter brand, stark and angry on his flesh. He was holding his weapon, but it didn’t appear to be the same halberd. It appeared to be a smoking, blackened spear. 

Boone made a pained sound, unable to help stumbling over to this alternate painting. “How the fuck…this is…this is _wrong,”_ Boone declared. She could suddenly feel it, gut deep. Something was _wrong._ Something that had been lingering since the battle. Not just this painting but something more. “This shouldn’t _be here.”_

Thioni also approached the other painting but Cam suddenly snatched her by the arm. “Hey! Did you know this would be here?”

“My Lady told me to find yellow birds,” the genasi said, making no attempt to break free or fight against Cam. “I did not know they would be in a painting. But I can feel magic from it. A _lot_ of it.”

“This is fucked up,” Dagna grumbled.

Moreso when the eyes of all seven canaries _lit up_ and all the torches on the walls went out. 

_(“Time to wake up, my love.”)_

“This rod he was bound to,” Kallas repeated. “It controls the contracts. You are certain?”

Velicia nodded. "But, according to My Lady, she believes that the Devil King is possibly...trapped."

"Trapped?" Kallas blinked. 

"Doesn't he have the Ninth Hell to be in?" Cyrus asked.

"Typically, yes. But...you know when I said that things have happened? Well, one of those things was the Devil King disappearing from the Nine Hells. My Lady believes he is on one of the material planes." 

“A material plane?” Cyrus asked. “So in the living world?”

“In a matter of speaking, friend,” Velicia told him. “Not the one you know but another called Irulan.”

Both men started a little. “Like Tinker said,” Kallas murmured.

“Jazirian told us about Irulan, when he spoke to us in the Sanctuary,” Cyrus remembered. 

“It is a reflection of your world, Naluri but not the same,” Velicia confirmed.

Kallas frowned, puzzling on these bits of information, flying around his brain like origami swans. “If the Devil King has been....somehow removed from the Nine Hells, am I to presume that he does not have this ruby rod on his physical person?" When Velicia nodded, Kallas went on, "Then where is this ruby rod?”

Velicia shrugged. “Well, that is the funny part of all this, my friends. There is no one left who remembers the Trial, where the Devil King was judged for stealing souls. The ruby rod was presented as a means of binding him to a process, so he did not take souls as he pleased but was still permitted to make shady bargains with silly mortals.”

“So he has been separated from this ruby rod that controls the contracts. Does the Raven Queen believe he went to the material plane for some purpose?” Kallas asked.

“She believes he went...somewhat unwillingly? Though I am not certain how she ascertained that. Gods are strange creatures. But, given the cults that surround the Devil King--"

"Wait! What about Kriza--oh. Uh," Cyrus put a hand over his mouth. "I mean, eh--"

"With a 'K'?" Velicia confirmed. "I know who you mean." 

Cyrus nodded. "Oh good. He tried to take my soul, I think. Like he took Brenna's. But the Devil King refused to allow it." Cyrus still got a chill when he recalled the horrible voice: _("He is mine!")_

Velicia nodded, pointing at Cyrus. "Yes, that was the other thing My Lady wished for me to discuss. She believes he has something to do with this too. But the first step, will be the ruby rod."

"How will we find this relic?" Kallas inquired. "I cannot imagine the Devil King would keep it on display somewhere in the Nine Hells." 

"The Raven Queen knows of a memory of a man who found a book, supposedly written by the Devil King himself, which the Raven Queen believes may shed light on where the rod can be found.”

Cyrus frowned. “So why not just ask _him?”_

“Because he was already taken,” Velicia informed him. 

“Let us say," Kallas began, "that this is successful. We find the rod and take control of the contracts. What will stop him from simply murdering me to take it back?”

And here Velicia nodded. “The ruby rod is a relic and very powerful. It could likely be used to diminish or destroy the Devil King's power. But there would be no reason for him to suspect that you would know of such a thing. And My Lady recalls that you,” she gestured to Kallas, “were rather clever and brave enough to make a deal with the King of the Nine Hells once.”

“Not a very good deal,” Kallas told her, shaking his head. 

“But not many would even have _attempted_ such a thing, especially to save someone who had already betrayed them. The Devil King is a god, yes? You, me, we are mortals. Most of us avoid non-mortals when we can help it. But now, you understand the consequences of pacts with such beings, yes?”

“So that should tell you not to do it,” Cyrus concluded, “since we have been trying to avoid the Devil King.”

Kallas frowned. “He is right. The Raven Queen pointedly helped me find him when the Devil King came for him.”

“Eh, that is the Shadowfell, that is this place. The Remembering is very important,” Velicia told them, rocking back and forth in the ash. “The idea is for you to remember who you are on your own so you know that no one forced another name upon you. But sometimes we need help from friends.” She put a hand on her chest. “After all, I don’t remember my name either but I did not have my soul claimed by a devil king.”

Cyrus narrowed his eyes. “And now we have something he wants.”

“Our names.” Kallas frowned. 

“Yes, your delicious names, especially you,” Velicia said, nodding to Kallas to avoid saying his name. “You know who you are. You’ve known it since you arrived. There was no Remembering of your name, just other things. It will be more difficult, it will take much longer, for you to forget your name. The Devil King is an impatient god, a _hungry_ god. He does not like to wait.”

“What about me?” Cyrus asked.

Velicia gave him a gentler smile. “You and I are more alike, my friend. You could not remember your name and he almost took you. My Lady believes it would be extremely dangerous for you to enter a contract with him, since he already has a hold on you.”

Kallas rubbed his jaw. “And if we are separated, he may believe that it will be to his advantage.”

Cyrus looked down at the ash. “What kind of deal would you even make?”

Kallas was looking at the rock, mind racing. “Say I were to offer him _my_ name, then, in exchange for another deal.”

Cyrus jerked up, looking at him in alarm. _”Give_ him your name?”

“In exchange,” Kallas emphasized. “When I made the deal with him for Tinker, it was not a spectral few seconds. I appeared in a room of his creation with wine, a fire, and documents. He created a stage for our agreement. He adheres to the lawful nature of a contract.”

“Because he must,” Velicia added, throwing ash back and forth between her palms.

“Because he must….” Kallas mused, “….and if he believes that this ruby rod would free him and I could somehow find it….”

“Then he might be convinced to make a deal, say your freedom for his. Or he will think it very, very funny, watching you try. Then once you get the rod, fuck him over.”

“You think he’s really going to believe that you think your freedom is equal to a devil king’s freedom?” Cyrus inquired.

Kallas shrugged. “Freedom is worth freedom, like life is life and death is death. It simply is. There’s not really a way to quantify it. Mortals are not capable of comprehending the enormity of gods. And it seems like he counts on that when he makes his deals.”

Velicia smirked and clapped Kallas on the shoulder. “Clever tiefling, you know more about gods than you realize. Pretentious bunch of twats.” 

Cyrus drug his fingers through his hair. “So, if he accepts and he sends you to the material plane….” And here, Cyrus hesitated, as if wavering on his words, “….how, uh….how will I find you again?”

“Ah, kind and noble human! Do not worry! Velicia is here to help still! I will stay by your side and help protect you and when it is all over, you might see your friends again.”

Kallas did not look comforted by that. “There are no guarantees that I will survive. But I imagine if I do not do this, the other option is to be trapped here until one of us forgets our name.”

“What about Brenna?” Cyrus asked.

Kallas peered up at Velicia. “Given the Devil King said her name to me before I managed to break his shield, I wondered if Brenna is even _in_ this realm. I believe that, perhaps, she has already been taken.”

Velicia inclined her head to them in a respectful sort of way. “She does not seem to be in the Shadowfell any longer.”

Cyrus’ eyes hardened at those words. “Then the man who found this book in Irulan, what is his name?”

“Markus Landor.”

\------------


	10. Dreamers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Music for Cam for this short little bit = Far From Home: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8y4Sz8_Oq1M  
\----------------------
> 
> Cam shut his eyes. _Concentrate. Smother the anger. Some of this has got to be an illusion. Some part or all of it. Either she is an illusion or I’m having a nightmare or something. I remember walking into the tower. I remember dancing with Dagna. Pulling Boone from the ash. The portrait of Cyrus and those yellow birds. Ignore everything else. If it’s not real, let it fall away._
> 
> \-----------------------

He saw the fireplace first. As his eyes adjusted, Cam became aware of flickering flames and the scent of candles, parchment and spiced wine. He stirred in the cushioned chair. _What happened?_

“Don’t worry, my love, you are with me.” Talisa Macwell was bringing over a small bowl of candied nuts. “You are perfectly safe.”

Cam shot up in the chair, recoiling from his mother. He drug his hands over himself but it all felt real. How had she found them?! “Where are we? What happened!”

“Now, now, calm down,” Talisa raised an elegant hand and Cam suddenly was _jerked_ back to sit in the chair and blackened ropes whipped around his wrists like snakes. “You are perfectly safe here. I have gone to great lengths to ensure we would be able to speak.”

“Where’s Dagna! Where’s Boone!”

“Not far. Now, please, Leopold, take a breath. You may have some nuts or wine, or perhaps you might wish to smoke? You cannot know how _happy_ I am that you somehow survived. I expected Asmodeus would kill you and your friends.”

“You seemed perfectly happy to try and kill me with a trapped sword! Seems like a devil king isn't that far outside the realm of possibility!"

Talisa smiled, motherly and warm, at first. “Imagine my surprise when the bard picked up that sword. And how you _ran_ to her afterwards.” The smile turned into a sly smirk.

Cam’s shoulders stiffened and his glare turned cold, sneering, darkening like thunderheads.

“And Devonshire, I didn’t even realize it was her, at first. She’s quite blue, apparently a celestial now. How did this come to be?”

Cam sat up straight in his chair and looked down his nose at her like he smelled something foul.

But his mother only smiled. “And to think you used to drive me mad with your stubbornness. You reminded me so much of myself, I just couldn’t bear to let your father send you to the front.” His eyes sharpened and she definitely seemed to notice from her cunning little smile. “Does it make sense why Lady Devonshire had to die? It was to protect _you,_ my love.” She stood up, sweeping over to pose elegantly by the fireplace. “That was how it started, anyway. There is so much _more_ to the world than Jildos.”

Cam’s eyes were hot with anger and he was fighting through the static of it, trying to _process._ “You would think that, wouldn’t you? Instead of just stopping it, you _murdered_ an innocent girl and used another to do it. Couldn’t even dirty your own hands, huh?”

"If I had, it might have gone better," she admitted, knitting her fingers together as she turned to him. "I would have made sure she _stayed_ dead." Her dress was black brocade, lace and reinforced leathers. It was still so _foreign_ seeing her in any kind of armor. “You traveled to many different places, didn’t you, Leopold?”

“Leopold is _dead.”_

The smile on Talisa’s face gave an odd sort of twitch. “Closer than you seem to think.” 

Cam narrowed his eyes. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

But his mother turned away, sweeping over to the door, turning the lock and opening it. “Come in,” she said to the hallway.

And Gregor followed her to the fireplace.

Cam arrested. _What the…no, no, I pierced his throat myself in Jildos. Right?_ He got an uneasy flicker through his mind of Cyrus in the tunnels, that choking sense of dread.

“Oh yes, this is your actual brother, Leopold. Don’t worry, you simply needed a very convincing memory for the three of you to wallow in. Say hallo to your younger brother, Gregor.”

He wore no helm now and seemed less rotted than whatever Cam remembered stabbing in the neck in Jildos. His eyes were just as bloodshot, though. There was just a slight narrowing and it gave Cam’s stomach a sickening _lurch_ at the _recognition_ that went through Gregor’s hazel eyes. But his elder brother couldn’t seem to speak, he simply gave Cam a short bow. 

Cam stared at him. “What…I—how is—“

Talisa tittered. “Seeing your friend, Sabal, no longer Undead, gave me an idea. I was curious as to how he accomplished that. With my magic, I have been able to preserve and protect his physical body." She gestured to his elder brother like he were some lumbering statue. "But I would like to know more about how Sabal reversed his Undeath."

Cam tried to wrench up against his bindings but they held strong and he breathed out roughly between his grinding teeth. "Ha, maybe you should ask _Jazirian."_ He saw the grimace that clouded her expression when he said the name. 

But it was only a flicker and that sly smile upturned her features. "You know, I'm sure you didn't _intend_ to give me an idea. You and the bard were trying so hard to keep an eye on Boone. So much _guilt_ for the death of the tiefling and Sabal. And it _all_ could have been avoided."

Cam tried to gather energy in his hands, tried to tear _up_ at his bindings so he could _inflict_ upon her--but nothing happened. 

Talisa merely watched him, looking amused. "I don't blame you for trying, Leopold. But come now, you know the steps to analyzing unknown magic. Do you really not realize where you are?”

Cam sat back in the chair, sneering. He shut his eyes. _Concentrate. Smother the anger, calm down. Some of this has got to be an illusion. Some part or all of it. Either she is an illusion or I’m having a nightmare or something. I remember walking into the tower. I remember dancing with Dagna. Pulling Boone from the ash. The portrait of Cyrus and those yellow birds. Ignore everything else. If it’s not real, let it fall away._

“I’m afraid that’s not going to work, my love.” And he felt Talisa’s warm hand touch his cheek, familiar. Her scent was the same, cinnamon and rose. Cam stiffened like a wooden post and opened his eyes. His mother was still there. 

“Come with me. Join me at the window.” And when she reached out her hand, the coil of snaking rope loosened and fell away. Cam was _compelled_ to take his mother's hand, standing up by her whim, rather than his own. “Gregor, open the curtains, let him see.”

His brother lumbered over to the window and drew back the floor-to-ceiling curtains. The glass displayed a crystal clear rectangle into a dark, hazy sky. There was ash and sand everywhere, spires of black rock like jagged teeth outlined the horizon. 

“Perhaps this will aid in your understanding, my starling.”

Cam touched the glass. It felt cold and very very real. Far in the distance there were lights, perhaps torches, but almost nothing indicating life. Lava flats stretched far to the northeast and mighty sand dunes rolled over endless desolation to the west. _Oh shit, this is not our plane._ “What is this place?”

“The Shadowfell. The realm between realms, if you will.”

Cam whirled away from the window and tried to take a step towards her, fighting against her _compulsion_ that he be _still._ That he simply _obey._ He couldn't seem to _reach_ his magic. “Where are Dagna and Boone!” 

But Gregor stepped between the two, putting a palm on Cam’s shoulder to hold him.

That sickly sweet smile came back and Talisa stepped around her elder son. “Fear not, Gregor. I will answer him.” She gestured to a dark mirror in the corner. “Go ahead, I think it will help you realize your new reality. And what you need to do to correct it.”

Cam felt her _compulsion_ over him vanish and Gregor released him, like a docile dog. He suddenly very much did _not_ want to look in the mirror but he stepped towards it anyway. His heart was pounding but he stood up straight, determined not to show fear before his mother as he stepped in front of the shimmering glass. 

Three faces appeared before him, bound in ropes or some kind of blackened _webs._ Dagna was on the left, eyes shut, twitching in pain, exposed flesh scarred and seeping. Boone was beside her, eyes shut like she were sleeping, bluer than ever in the dim light. She looked to be in the throes of a nightmare, trembling just slightly. And beside Boone was…himself. His own body, his own face but his eyes were open and glowing white. His arms and legs, torso and throat were bound in slimy webs. They seemed to _shift,_ raising his face with a grotesque roll of his neck.

As soon as he made eye contact, he heard his mother say, “We’ll speak again soon.”

And then he felt a vicious _yank_ and the mirror flew by him. _No! Fight it! Fight it! NO!_ But he couldn’t. He was back in his body, aware of only pain, dim light, struggling. _Snared._

_We never left the city. We never left. Trapped._

-  
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	11. Surrender

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Never Surrender, by Liv Ash: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HRdSrgcoymc&list=PLQuOKHNudkme-P2XykOQOMLhdu_WjLR7A&index=106&t=0s
> 
> \----------------------------------------  
Kallas grabbed the other tiefling by her armor, jerked her close and looked her right in the eye. “If something happens to him, I will come for _you.”_
> 
> Velicia’s night-black eyes steadied on Kallas and she nodded. “I would expect nothing less from a man who makes deals with gods.” She nodded to him. “I will protect him or I will die trying.”  
\-----------------------------------------

Boone opened her eyes to a canopy made of purple silks and amber-colored oak. That was strange, as the last thing she remembered was the painting in the tower. Had something happened? The room was comfortable, handsome, with heavy quilts and a warm fireplace and Gregor Macwell in plate armor sitting next to her.

Boone full stopped, staring at him and shook herself. _Is this an illusion?_ But he was still there when she opened her eyes. 

Gregor was sitting in a heavy wooden chair beside the bed. He looked ill, rather like Cyrus had when he’d been Undead. Gregor appeared haggard and his cheeks had thinned out but his resemblance to the man who’d so patiently tried to dance with her at their second meeting was unquestioning. He’d been kind to her. Boone was also fairly certain that Gregor was dead. Twice now. 

That snapped her back, unfogging her brain in a flash and she sat up but Gregor did not move except to lift a hand and put a finger in front of his lips. 

“Gregor?” Boone asked, her voice sounded small.

Cam’s elder brother gave her a single nod. His eyes were bloodshot, resigned, and dim but could clearly understand her. He had comprehension, like Cyrus had. And like Cyrus, Gregor had that odd _presence_ tied to him. Something _dark_ that wasn’t the human at all, something else. And just like the warlock, some piece of Gregor was still there.

_We were in the tower. What happened? Did Thioni trick us? _

Because if she was with Gregor, that meant that one other Macwell family member was probably nearby. Lady Macwell was more dangerous than her own parents had ever suspected. Than any of them had suspected. If she had somehow captured her, than no doubt she had Dagna and Cam too.

Boone turned to face the man, moving her boots off the bed. “Gregor….do you know where Cam is?”

The man’s eyes went to the floor, something painful wincing over his expression as he gave a single nod. 

But when she started to get up, Gregor did too, laying a gentle hand on her shoulder. He shook his head.

And then the door to the room opened and Talisa Macwell herself entered. She examined the two of them. “Thank you, Gregor, for keeping an eye on our guest. She’s still so lovely, isn’t she?”

Gregor faced his mother and simply nodded once in agreement, eyes downcast. 

“Please go to the mirror and inform me should any changes occur.” 

Like a gollum, Gregor turned away from Boone, lumbering out the door.

“Hello, my dear,” Talisa Macwell said, staring into her face as she approached. 

Boone scowled at her. “What happened? Where is Dagna? And Cam?”

“They are safe. As are you. Wine, Lady Devonshire?” Lady Macwell went to the fireplace to pour from an urn of wine. 

Boone stayed standing beside the bed, even reached out to touch it, trying to see if it was _really_ real. But it seemed to be. No illusions fell away, nothing shimmered in other languages. Lady Macwell looked exactly as she had during their last meeting, albeit less blood-spatter from Cam’s sacrificed father. Darkness seemed trail after her, like wispy little shadows. 

Lady Macwell looked over at her from the fireplace and tittered like Boone were a shy girl in a library. “Come, my dear, you’ve nothing to fear from me.”

“Considering you tried to have me murdered, I doubt that.” Boone circled to the edge of the bed and put about six feet of space between herself and Lady Macwell. 

“Yes, your friend Sabal was involved in that unfortunate business, wasn’t he?” 

Boone glared at her, taking a breath around the rage that wanted to flood up through her teeth. 

“Oh, I understand that you came to appreciate him later—but there’s no doubt that, circumstances given what they were, you were wise to mistrust him.”

“I don’t trust _you_ either.”

Talisa tittered. “I wouldn’t expect you’d be silly enough to trust me. I acted before to protect my son but now there are much larger forces at play.”

“Where am I? This isn’t the tower I remember being in.”

Talisa sipped her wine. “It isn’t, my dear, because there was no tower.”

Boone glared. “Then what happened to Thioni?”

And there, Talisa paused. “Thioni?”

“The blind earth genasi?”

Talisa peered at Boone for a long, searching moment. Long enough that Boone got an odd feeling, that perhaps something was….out of place. Jarred. But then Talisa turned to the fireplace. “I would assume she was part of someone’s memory, Lady Devonshire. Currently, you are now in the Shadowfell, which is still preferable to where your physical body now resides.”

Boone abruptly became aware that the feather hidden deep in her pocket was gone, as were her weapons and Cyrus’ halberd. And she suddenly remembered the blast of opaque darkness. There was the wave that had locked every other person in time. Armies and chaos surrounding them on all sides and in the middle, in a courtyard of a fortress, Kallas taken and Cyrus’ body destroyed…and then had come the second wave. The darkness had fallen, the silence chilling and final. 

_How did I forget?_

It made her think of poor Cyrus, blaming himself for her death when he’d been as much an unwilling participant as she’d been. It must have been worse for him, aware the _entire_ time but unable to stop himself, unable to act. And then they’d probably snatched him in the city and _branded_ him, throwing him out, betrayed. 

“Where is my….body?” Boone asked, looking down at her hands. 

“With Asmodeus, King of the Nine Hells,” Macwell said and then simply paused, peering at Boone as it sunk in. 

The girl shuddered. “And Cam? Dagna?”

“They, as well. I am arranging for us to speak, to attempt to bargain. But you know how Leopold can be, by now, I assume? Stubborn to the last.”

That was true. His stubbornness could be infuriating to Boone. Sometimes, it seemed like he only did things in order to spite what everyone else was doing. The decisions he made could seem so arbitrary, at times. It made him…harder to get to know, in some ways. Or maybe just harder for her to understand. 

Talisa Macwell was still watching her. “But you know, things can always change.”

Boone circled around the big wooden chairs in front of the fireplace, watching the other woman. 

“The future is not always written in stone,” Talisa went on, seeming unperturbed by Boone’s movements. She simply followed the girl with her eyes. “In fact, I sometimes wonder how it could have been if you’d been mine from the beginning.” 

Boone wrinkled her nose. “From the beginning?”

Lady Macwell smiled. “If you’d been _my_ daughter. The things I could have taught you, _shown_ you. Your parents didn’t see your potential. Even _you_ suspected they had a hand in your death.”

“That was planned by _you.”_

“What would you do to protect someone you loved, Boone?” Lady Macwell’s eyes became far away. “I found that I would do whatever I could to protect my son.”

“Which was killing _me.”_

“Would you die to protect him now?”

Boone stiffened, instinctively recoiling from the question. 

Talisa smiled gently at her. “It’s all right. There’s no need to be ashamed. He and Gregor both are charismatic, intelligent, handsome, everything a mother could want from her sons. I would kill to protect them. I already have. But,” and here, Lady Macwell turned to fully face Boone, stepping around the chairs so to clear the objects between them, “that was before I really understood the power, the _knowledge_ that we could gain. And where I once saw an obstacle, I now see an asset.” She gestured to Boone. “I could teach you incredible things, Boone.”

Boone stared at her and tried to shake her head. “I…you couldn’t—I’m…”

“I don’t mean paltry _temple_ magics,” Talisa said, waving a hand in dismissal. “I could teach you magic that would have saved Sabal.” She raised her dark eyebrows. “I could have saved the tiefling: Kallas, was his name?”

Boone glanced towards the door. “I think you just want to hurt people, hurt me, hurt Cam and Dagna.”

“Hurt Cam?” Talisa looked surprised for a moment. “No. I have _no_ desire to harm my son. Leopold is stubborn but he isn’t stupid. Time will change his mind.”

Boone snorted. “Or you’ll change it for him, like you did to Gregor?”

Talisa’s mouth thinned. “I _saved_ Gregor. And you could help me restore him completely.”

Boone glared at her. “I’m not a cleric. I _can’t_ restore him. He’s dead, or Undead. Or something.”

“Sabal was also Undead and yet, when I saw him, he was no longer of that state. Do you know how that came to be?”

Boone remembered watching him peer into the pool of still water in the Sanctuary, saw him observe his alternate, the dwarf. Saw him suddenly get a sweep of color back in his face. But it seemed like it might be a bad idea to tell her about the Sanctuary. 

“No. Jazirian chose to do it. That’s all I know.” 

“Did he also gift Sabal with seven golden dragons?”

Boone paused and shook her head. “No. I don’t know exactly…they were canaries, at first.”

“Yes, I’m aware of that,” Talisa told her, voice more brisk, terse. “They disappeared after the warlock’s death, yes? Apparently, your god was not so interested in saving him when it mattered.”

Boone stiffened, glaring at the woman. 

_(“Look after your friends….”)_

“Is his death still haunting you, child?” Lady Macwell inquired. “Perhaps you should ask your god what you should do? Would you like to meditate in this room?”

Boone took a step back from her. “Why would you tell me to do that?”

Lady Macwell gave her a coy little smile. “So that you understand for yourself that your god can’t help you now.”

“How do we do this?” Kallas looked to Velicia. “I imagine I have to get his attention.”

“He is always listening, yes? Wanting to try and pinpoint your names, your presences.”

“So I would just need to call for him,” Kallas muttered and nodded to himself before he unhooked his shining rapier and held out the sheath to Cyrus. “You should hold onto this. I imagine he will not be keen to let me keep it. There is some sort of magic attuned to it.”

Cyrus took it, but clearly with reservations. “Kallas…” He looked at the rapier and then back at the tiefling. “If something happens to you—“

“If something happens to me, then you will endure. One of us has to carry on.”

Velicia looked between the two and bowed her head to them. “I will give you a moment.” 

Cyrus glanced at the woman and then looked back to Kallas as she stepped about fifteen paces away, keeping lookout. “I am trying to think of some way to help you. I don’t know what I—”

Kallas suddenly grabbed him by the front of his rotted and rusted armor. “Do not _surrender,_ Cyrus. That is what you must do.”

“But I—“

“You must not surrender who you are and if you do not know who you are, than this is the time to figure it out. If you forget, he will come for you and you will die. Or be taken for something worse. Those are your only choices now.”

Cyrus searched Kallas’ fiery amber eyes and then nodded, securing Kallas’ rapier at his hip. “I will hold onto this for you. You better come back for it.”

They clasped arms, hard, for an extra moment. Cyrus felt like he was splitting apart, helpless, watching his friend about to cast himself to the fire. To a fucking devil god. _And I can’t do anything! Fuck…_

And then Kallas walked over to Velicia. “I will call to him. You should go with Cyrus, far away from here, just in case.”

“I will help keep the human safe, my friend. Do not worry, Velicia will—“

Kallas grabbed the other tiefling by her armor, jerked her close and looked her right in the eye. “If something happens to him, I will come for _you.”_

Velicia’s night-black eyes steadied on Kallas and she nodded. “I would expect nothing less from a man who makes deals with gods.” She nodded to him. “I will protect him or I will die trying.”

Kallas released her and when he looked back at Cyrus, he clenched his fist and thumped it to his chest in salute. It was suddenly hard to see and Kallas made himself take a deep breath as he turned away from both of them. His hands were cold and his heart was racing as he walked into the desolate ashlands.

Velicia went swiftly to Cyrus. “We must go from here before the Devil King is called to him.”

Cyrus gritted his teeth, eyes trained on the tiefling, standing straight and tall and so very alone. But he managed a nod when Velicia put a hand on his shoulder to guide him away. _Raven Queen, Bahamut, Jazirian, whoever is there….let him survive._

Velicia took off her ring of bangles. One of them had a tiny talisman of a door on it. She spun it on the bangle three times and a spectral door appeared in front of the two of them. Cyrus looked back at Kallas again before he walked through, eyes downcast. Velicia thumped her fist to her chest in salute to Kallas' pale form and then followed the human.

When the door closed, the detective looked back to ensure they were gone. _Be safe, my friend._ And then he centered himself there, alone, in the blackened ash. Kallas had to block out everything else, thinking only of the name, _Asmodeus,_ and the presence of the devil king, the feeling of desolation, submission and pain, the terror and loneliness he inspired. 

The longer he stood there, _remembering_ the baleful echoes of the voice, concentrating on the memory of glowing eyes, he _felt_ how sound seemed to suppress around him. The air became _heavy_ and smelled of sulfur. 

A shadow sparked, there was a _pulse_ and a purple doorway buzzed into existence, a mirror, a portal and a tall darkness was filling in before him. The devil was huge with night-black skin and hair, red eyes and horns. The voice was quieter this time, not booming so loud but still with deep reverberations in Kallas’ bones. “Well, well, well, the ambitious tiefling. I wondered if I might hear from you.”

“I want to make a deal,” Kallas spit the words and made himself look right up at Asmodeus, glaring at this shadowy devil-king.

“A man who gets straight down to business.” He approached, looming over Kallas, smirking down at him. “I appreciate that.”  
-  
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	12. Perspective

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Graveyard Train: End of the World: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rQwZrxtb_8Y  
\--------------------------------------------
> 
> The ash sifted her to stand in front of Cam, looking fiercely up into his face and saying, “If you had the chance to help these people, to change something, wouldn’t you take it, even if it meant doing something terrifying?”
> 
> “It’s not terror that keeps me away—“
> 
> “Are you sure?” Dagna cut him off. “Because that’s what it _sounds_ like!”
> 
> \--------------------------------------------

_(“Show me. Who is Cam the sorcerer?”)_

It was happening again. 

The flash through the dark and Cyrus suddenly turning, grabbing onto Boone. The strike was blinding, Dagna and Cam could only stagger back and then the feathers _burst—_

There was screaming, a rending in the world and there was roaring. But desperate _sobs_ were the last thing that reached her ears before time stopped for them too.

_Time stopped for us. For all of us._

That moment, frozen around her. Boone desperately clinging to Cyrus, sobbing into the feathers that were scattered in the air like frozen snowflakes. Everything perfectly still. Boone’s grief was etched onto her face, the terrible _helplessness_

Cam’s eyes, locked in horror, realization. The lights were frozen before them as well and it lit Cam’s face up, eyes wide, hair blown back. His armor was clean and bright, his sword a gleaming band of silver in that exact moment. He would not make it to Boone and Cyrus. He couldn’t protect them. He couldn’t. It was just like Brenna: just like he couldn’t _bring_ them up in the drow city! He couldn’t help Brenna in time and now again, _helpless—_

And Dagna stepped back from her own body and still saw it there. She saw the rage and distress, the shock of realization, another _stab_ after the sudden loss of Kallas and her body wanted to curl up and sob but she _couldn’t_ because they were all going to _die_ and she wanted to scream her rage—

The Dagna that could move did so, stepping back from herself. The courtyard was perfectly still. It all was eerily still. And so incredibly quiet. 

No animals, no battle, nothing. Silence. Dagna turned a slow circle. _What is happening?_

And then suddenly, everything reversed, speeding back in jerks to Kallas’ neck being _snapped_ and Dagna’s adrenaline pulsed with rage and grief and she kissed Cam on the cheek when she said, _“For Kallas!”_

They were stepping back again, everything was turning to ash and shifting around her, moving into place in Silver Strings.

She saw herself staggering to the ground, holding Corvino and crying. The others were following through the door before it vanished into the air. Kallas watched them, silent. Corvino’s soul had probably been taken, like Brenna’s. Cam was looking uncomfortable, cursing softly to himself. 

Dagna took in a shaky breath and then looked up at the Macwell heir. “Do you still think standing on the sidelines is going to be good for everyone now? You see what happens to everyone that isn’t _you?”_

Cam looked away, frowning. 

The ash sifted her up, to stand in front of Cam, looking fiercely up into his face and saying, “If you had the chance to help these people, to change something, wouldn’t you take it, even if it meant doing something terrifying?”

“It’s not terror that keeps me away—“

“Are you _sure?”_ Dagna cut him off. “Because that’s what it _sounds_ like!”

Cam did a double-take at her and froze, staring. He opened his mouth to speak and then didn’t, couldn’t, feeling very abruptly like she had just seen _passed_ his mask. Something in his eyes _cracked_ a little.

Cyrus leaned a little into his halberd, examining the sorcerer. “And I have never heard of a Macwell backing down from a fight as much as you. Even though you don’t claim the name."

Cam scowled. “I don’t want—“

“I’m not saying you claim the name!” Dagna raised her hands between the men. “As far as I know, Leopold Macwell is dead. Okay. Great. I stand by that. But you,” and she pointed at sorcerer, “are Cam. You are not Leopold. But couldn’t _Cam_ do something? Anything. To make a difference? Wouldn’t Cam want to take that chance? Sometimes we gotta do the shitty thing! Sometimes we gotta face our damn fears. And saying you’re just going to do _nothing_ when the _only_ reason you get to say that is because you grew up protected from it? How far is that _bullshit_ going to get you?”

“I was hoping just a little further.” But his voice was cowed, quiet.

“Well, you can either go hide or you can just take my hand and face it.” She held her hand out to him.

Cam felt his resolve crumbling, the longer he was in front of her, the longer her green gaze seared all the arrogance and pride from him. He felt _exposed._ Typically, people did not get to know him that well. Typically, his friendships, his personal relationships, were short-lived. And then came Dagna. This damn bard from nowhere, who had somehow gotten under his skin. Who gave his gut some mixture of elation and terror, just from being around her. Creative, kind, brave, fierce and _good,_ that was Dagna. And somehow, she had peeled back the pieces of him that he’d tried so hard to nail down and hide. She’d seen through him, despite all his efforts. 

_I will never be able to face her again if I refuse now._

And in that split-second: just like that, a finger-snap and his decision was made: 

“The thing most don’t know about House Macwell…..” And then he took a deep breath to steady himself and he finally looked Dagna in the eye, “…..is that there’s a tunnel system underneath the city.”

“Uh, what?” Dagna stopped cold.

“Oh shit, really?” Cyrus asked. “That explains _so much._ You have no idea.” Kallas and Boone both frowned curiously at him.

“In fact, they can move the entire troop garrison, in and out, underground without anyone knowing. But, the thing about not anyone knowing, ha,” and here, Cam broke eye contact with her and said, in a stage whisper, “is that there’s probably not that many people guarding it.”

Dagna just stared at him like a traveler in a desert in sight of an oasis. “And where would you say the entrance is at?”

“Well….if I had a map….” And Cam gave them all an apologetic sort of eyeroll as he pulled a map from his pack, “I would say that it’s…..here.” He opened up a weathered map on a well-worn roll of leather for Dagna to see. “I, uh, I kept a few of Leopold’s things, uh, when he passed—“

Dagna threw herself into his arms. She kissed his cheek and squeezed him tight to her. He felt her curl her fingers into his hair and his back. “Thank you, thank you so much! This is going to help—thank you!”

“This….seems like a really bad idea,” he managed, not resisting holding her as he looked down into her face. “I mean, I’m gonna do it. But, oh fuck, I really don’t want to.” A dizzy laugh transferred from his chest to his arms to her. He felt her shift to steady him.

“You know, they say that sometimes the worst ideas are the most fun,” Cyrus informed them. The warlock had a small smile on his face, just watching.

“I don’t think _anyone_ says that,” Cam said, trying out a tepid laugh.

“For what it’s worth, I think you’re very brave,” Dagna said as she released him, pressing her palm to his chest before she pulled away.

Cam snorted. “Oh no, no, I’m just _really_ fucking stupid.” 

“They go hand in hand.” She grinned, wiping tears from her eyes as she took a moment to compose herself. 

Cam couldn’t help but smile faintly back at her and suddenly was aware of everyone staring at them. “How about it, Boone? You wanna follow us on our big dumb adventure?” He pointed at Kallas. “We’ll get to Tinker next, I promise.”

“I bet he’s going to follow us,” Dagna said, rolling her shoulders as she busied herself making sure all her gear was in place.

Boone sighed. “All right. Why not? I mean, what do we have to lose?”

“Our lives,” Cyrus said, matter-of-factly.

“A lot,” Cam echoed. “But I mean, to be fair, that’s what we have to lose every time we do something dumb together. We, uh….” And then he seemed to remember Boone, Cyrus and Brenna had already hit that milestone. “Well. Anyway. It might work?”

Dagna opened her eyes. She was sitting in a cushioned wooden chair in front of a fireplace. There was a table to her right. It had two goblets of wine, a bowl of candied nuts and three candles sitting on it. 

Across that table, sitting in another chair, a familiar voice said, “You are the bard, correct? Dagna O’Leeroy?”

Dagna stiffened and when she laid eyes on Cam’s mother, she instantly grabbed the nearest thing to her on the table. It was the bowl of nuts. She threw the whole mess at Lady Macwell. The hard rounds of candied ammunition scattered over the House matriarch, who sat still and regal as a statue.

But Dagna ignored that, jumping up to flip the table—

Talisa stood as well, raising her hand and Dagna choked, fingers underneath the edge but somehow unable to throw. 

“I would advise you to _calm_ yourself,” Lady Macwell commanded, voice hard and flat.

“Fuck _you!”_ Dagna snapped. 

Talisa’s eyebrows went up and she snorted. “Yes, I see why he’s fond of you now.” 

Dagna suddenly remembered that they had been in a tower before this but she dismissed it. “He? Cam? Where is he! What did you _do_ to him!”

“I attempted to reason with him.” Talisa closed her fist and Dagna was yanked back into the wooden chair and in a wink, her hands were bound with slimy blackened ropes. “As I am attempting to do with you.”

_”You_ would have let him _die!”_

“Leopold is stubborn but he isn’t stupid. I gave him multiple chances to take his rightful place as heir to House Macwell.”

“Fuck you! You killed Corvino! Jildos destroyed my clan! _You_ got Kallas and Cyrus killed!”

“I believe the tiefling did that on his own,” Lady Macwell said with a coy little smirk. “And as for Sabal, well, Lady Boone certainly did not trust him. He killed her, after all.”

“Because of _you,_ you fucking cunt!”

“So vulgar,” Talisa said airily, waving a hand in dismissal. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. My son drinks with common killers and consorts with thieves.”

“He’s worth more than anything you could have trapped him into being!”

“Trapped? Is that how you saw it? It is his _right,_ my dear. His birthright. You wouldn’t understand our perspective, sweetling.”

“You don’t even under_stand_ him! You care about what _you_ want! You don’t care about Cam at all!”

Talisa’s hazel eyes narrowed at the bard and the woman stood. She stalked around the table like a spider, looming over Dagna. “I’m tempted to take your _scalp_ and show it to him. That would certainly make an impression, wouldn’t it?”

“You can eat a dick!” Dagna snarled at her and then spit on her dress. 

Talisa clapped her backhanded across the face with her leather gauntlet. The studs split her lip and her nose swelled with blood. 

Dagna tongued at the wound on her mouth and grinned. “What else you got?”

The Lady took a deep breath, as if to regain her composure before she turned away. “Gregor.” She gestured to the mirror in the corner that he was still dutifully watching. “Stay with the bard until she’s more agreeable. I am going to speak to our other guest.” She slammed the door on her way out.

“Does she mean Boone?!” Dagna demanded, glaring at Gregor as the man automatically approached once the door closed. “Hey! Yeah, I’m talking to _you!_ Where’s Cam!”

Gregor looked up and his hollow hazel eyes met her own. He glanced back at the mirror, nodding towards it. 

“He’s in the mirror?” 

Gregor’s mouth creased into a thin line, checking the door with his eyes before meeting her face again. 

“What happened? Why are we here?!”

Gregor put a finger up over his mouth and stared at her. This was the only time Dagna had ever seen the elder Macwell son up close. The hulking helmed man from Jildos seemed different from this young man. He seemed less…._rotted._ He was taller than Cam but the resemblance between them was obvious: handsome, olive-toned, dark hair and the amber-hazel eyes. But his pallor was off and Dagna suddenly realized he was Undead but not decomposed, just as Cyrus had been. Across his throat, there was a horrible-looking scar that reminded Dagna of Boone’s gruesome scar where her head had nearly been severed.

Gregor put a palm on the blackened ropes and they loosened. 

“You’re Cam’s older brother, aren’t you?” Dagna said softly, peering up into those eyes. There was intelligence there. He wasn’t a mindless zombie. He still seemed _aware._ Something sharp cracked through his eyes before he allowed a single nod. 

Dagna took a shuddering breath. “Is this an illusion?” It definitely felt real but she was no wizard.

Gregor shook his head. 

Dagna pointed her finger at him and tried to cast a message: _What happened to you?_ But she felt the little spell fail, or rather—nothing happened. Nothing at all. She looked down at her hands. 

Suddenly, the dark mirror in the corner flared red and a voice filtered from the glass. _”Kallastin Sallerov.”_

“Kallas?!” Dagna leapt up from the chair, dashing across the room to the mirror. And for just a split-second, she saw him.

She _saw_ Kallas. The tiefling standing in a desolate-looking black desert, staring down Asmodeus again. The devil’s red eyes _gleamed._

The mirror flashed bright hot red, and then went dark.

She saw Gregor behind her in the smoky glass before it changed. She saw herself, coiled up in blackened, slimy ropes, almost like _webs._ Her eyes were open but glowing white. Boone was next to her, eyes also glowing pale. But Cam’s eyes were dark and his body was limp. He twitched, as if in the cage of a nightmare. 

Her heart fell, everything fell. _Oh. Oh no._ The bard spun away from the mirror, looking right up at Gregor. “You still love your brother, right? We have to _do_ something!”

He pulled away. He could not. He could never. The presence, that _power_ over him, he couldn't fight it. He'd already tried. Gregor's eyes were downcast as he shook his head and reached out. When he laid his hand on her shoulder, she felt something _yank_ her through the mirror. 

The elder Macwell watched the white glow to Dagna’s eyes dim dark, like his poor little brother. _Any changes. Any._ He turned away to find Lady Macwell. He should inform her that the tiefling had been found.

Now, only the human, Sabal, remained.  
-  
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	13. Don't Forget

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mares of the Night: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Qjbcoj8k9AE&list=PLQuOKHNudkme-P2XykOQOMLhdu_WjLR7A&index=133&t=0s  
\---------------  
Episode 222 had me flailing around and now I want to pull back and hear what actually happened to all the S04 Kids. Cause I flipped when it turned out that Kallas actually _was_ still alive and I can't wait to hear how everything came about. Props to Lauren and Sean for being great storytellers/DMs.  
\---------------  
I don't know if 'dreaming spheres' are a thing but it seems plausible.
> 
> Also, I just wanted to include Caldious (S02). Poor guy. lol  
\---------------
> 
> “Now,” Talisa said, suddenly, “we will change something. We place his subconscious like so.” Lady Macwell _flexed_ her will over the orb and the adult, Cam, appeared. “Because once you can command them in their dreams, the rest is much easier. But it takes time, depending on the strength of will.”  
\---------------

Leopold was eight years old on that grand spring morning that found him outside, dressed smartly in a new tunic and leggings. His fine black hair had been neatly trimmed the night before and he was wearing new boots that click-clacked up the steps of the grand battlements. These mighty stone walls could fit four wagons abreast at once and there were stands set up for the mighty families of Jildos, while the Freemen and poor watched from the grand square or nearby rooftops. 

It was a festive air, though Leopold was not certain what, exactly, was being celebrated but there were singers, scribes, officials, players, and servants with food and drink. His Lord Father was there, as well, so it must be an important occasion. His mother swept up to him and put a gentle, gloved hand on his shoulder. She was a stately, beautiful woman. Her dark lustrous hair elegantly pinned, sparkling hazel eyes and olive-skin were complemented by her green samite gown. To ward off the spring chill, she wore a fine cloak, lined with white fox fur and pinned with a broach of the Macwell coat-of-arms. 

“We’ll start soon, my love. Best go and sit with your brother.”

Gregor was already seated and he waved Leopold down. “Are you ready for today?” He said it quietly, leaning in.

Leopold looked blankly at him. “Yeah! What are we celebrating?”

Gregor frowned. “Today’s the execution, Leopold. Father told us a week ago.”

Leopold still did not seem to understand. “Yeah, he did.”

“You know what that means, ‘execution’?”

“Yeah, of course!” Leopold snorted. “It means to kill someone.” In a very somber and important way, he'd always heard.

Gregor peered at him. “Leopold, you understand that someone is _being_ executed today?”

Leopold made a face and looked around at the festival air. That didn't make any sense. “Here?”

“Of course, here. Where else?”

“Why would they do this party if it’s an execution?”

Gregor stared at him for a solid five seconds of silence before he managed, “…..I…I dunno. It’s how they’ve always done it. I’ve been to a few of these, Leo. They’re all like this.”

That made his younger brother scrunch up his eyes. “You’re lying,” he accused. Surely they wouldn't execute people at a festival. In stories and paintings, they always happened in the Grand Council chamber or a deserted cliff somewhere. Certainly not a crowded arena. To do otherwise would be disrespectful, Leopold concluded. "You're just trying to trick me!" 

“I am not!”

His mother was just making her way to them. The Macwells would be seated up front, just behind the Council chairs. His father, Lord Macwell, was chatting with the other lords in front of the fancier Council seat he would take as soon as the event was underway. 

When Lady Macwell perched beside them, Leopold crossed his arms and said, “Are they going to kill someone today?”

Lady Macwell stiffened and grabbed his arm. “Leopold,” she shushed, drawing him in swiftly. “Don’t be rude. Yes, today is the execution. We told you about this a week ago.”

“I know, I remember!” Leopold sniffed reproachfully. “Gregor said it means they’re going to kill someone _here.”_

His mother sighed, shooting Gregor a raised eyebrow before she said, “Jildos is enacting _justice,_ my love. Those who lose their lives today are criminals, nothing more. The guilty and the wicked, Leopold.”

Suddenly, the air didn’t feel as festive. Leopold felt odd, curious, but anxious too. His belly felt heavy. He sat down quietly beside Gregor after that. Uncertainty made his mouth dry up when the horns blasted beneath the battlements. 

Grand Steward Macwell then rose from his Grand Council chair and made a speech about new beginnings and cleansing the filth from their great city. He spoke about a battle taking place somewhere far from Jildos and how brave their men and women were. And in order to honor those soldiers, Jildos would enact justice at home, while the fighters represented them abroad. “Blood is the springtime, for Jildos. And we must keep it strong.”

They brought out prisoners one at a time from underneath the battlements, so that their names might be read and their crimes outlined for the observing masses. A herald hurried up to the edge of the battlements and announced: “Stephano Derleese!”

The man the guards led into the field was composed. He hands were bound and he had knitted his fingers together. He wore a ragged shift that looked filthy and he was barefoot. The man was middle-aged, dark-haired and he stayed quiet. He did not look around when the jeers began as his crimes were reported.

“The Grand Council finds Stephano Derleese guilty of the crimes of theft, arson, mutiny, and striking an officer. He has been sentenced to death!”

“How do they know that he’s guilty?” Leopold asked quietly. 

Gregor shrugged, looking a little uncomfortable. “They have a trial or something, right?” He looked to their mother.

“Yes, of course,” their mother told them but did not break her gaze from the field. 

The man was taken to the middle of the field and put on his knees in front of a large, heavy block of oak. Two guards stayed at the man’s back with swords drawn. The headsman took his greatsword and struck. 

Just like that, the man’s head was off and his body slumped to the dirt. Leopold couldn’t seem to help but watch the head roll off the block. The wood was dark and sticky with old blood and new. And then the guards hauled the body away like a sack of bloody potatoes. The executioner grabbed the head by the hair and gave it to another guard to take. 

“Fensino Marlock! Guilty of theft, racketeering, arson, and striking an officer! He has been sentenced to death!”

This man sauntered out with the guards and brazenly glared at the crowd. He turned his bound hands over and flipped off the Council. The guards gave him a shove to get him in position. 

“Were they military, Mother?” Gregor asked quietly.

“Yes, unfortunately,” Talisa replied quietly, glancing at her sons. “There are always some men who can’t adhere to honor. Now they die shamed, stripped of their ranks and citizenship.”

The second head came off. 

The spring air didn’t feel cool and pleasant anymore. The sun was hot on the back of Leopold’s neck as the third man (Davan Yalovic) was brought forward, then the fourth (Berian Plum).

The fifth, however, had to be drug out. Matthias Jeidman was desperate, wide-eyed and shouting: “There is no justice in Jildos! No better than thugs and butchers!”

The observers in the square hissed and jeered.

But the man pointed at the Council. “YOU are the mummers with blood on your hands! We’re only _bags of meat_ to all of you! Send the poor to fight a rich man’s war! The only traitors here are all of you! We are innocent!”

One of the guards tried to wrangle him to the ground. 

“There is always one,” one of the lords behind Leopold tittered and waved down a servant for more wine. 

Leopold looked sidelong at Gregor, eyebrows furrowed anxiously. His older brother put a steadying hand on his shoulder and leaned in as they both looked back to the field. “Sometimes, people panic when faced with death.”

And then the headsman pushed one of the guards back and simply cut the shouting man’s throat. 

“But…what if he _was_ innocent?” Leopold murmured, unable to tear his eyes away as the body was hauled off. 

“He wasn’t,” Gregor said with a shrug. “They have a trial. They would know, right?” 

Leopold finally broke his eyes away. “Are you sure?” But when he turned to face his elder brother, no one was there.

The stands were suddenly empty. The battlements, the square, the field, it was all empty. And Leopold was no longer standing on the stone but down on the dirt. But there were no guards anymore, no executioner, no prisoners. 

“Gregor?” He said, turning in a circle on the field. But it was still empty and his voice suddenly seemed too loud. Every single person was gone. The streamers and flower petals and the scent of food was still in the air but it was all mingled with blood now. 

When the child turned to face the middle of the field, that’s when he saw someone.

A young man with long, dark hair and a sword. He wore grubby-looking armor, like what a hedge knight or one of the Freemen might wear. There was no insignia to his gear, nothing that identified him, just black, plain. But something about him seemed _familiar._ But before Leopold could figure it out, this young man drew a shining sword and walked towards the executioner’s block.

Leopold had not seen anyone at the block just a second ago, he was sure. But now, along with the young man, there was someone else. Another familiar person, the slope of his shoulder, the clothing was the same:

_“Father?”_ Leopold raced towards them, touching the dagger Gregor had given him for his eighth birthday. But as he approached, he saw his mother standing between them. A large man was at her side, silent. 

“I’ve brought you a _gift,_ Leopold,” his mother said but she didn’t look at him. She looked at the young man, while gesturing to his father, who was bound and kneeling. 

The young man’s glare was cold and unflinching. 

“You should kill Lord Macwell,” his mother proposed to the young man. 

Some colorful paper streamers blew across the blood-soaked dirt. A feather was among them, seeming to catch itself on Leopold’s new boot. The child seemed to find his voice, “Mother!” 

That was when the young man seemed to notice him, the slightest of double-takes and then an open stare. _His eyes are like mine._

“You should _kill him,_ Leopold,” Talisa suggested again, glaring _hard_ at the young man. 

“Mother! What are you doing!” But she completely ignored him, staring at the young man.

The young man looked at Lady and Lord Macwell, the silent man at his mother’s side and then down at young Leopold himself. He sheathed his sword and took a deep breath. “This is a dream.”

Lady Macwell’s eyes narrowed and she stepped towards the young man, reaching up to touch his arm. “A long, _long_ dream.” 

And then she stabbed him in the gut and the world around them dissolved.

Lady Macwell brought Boone to a room that appeared to be a study. Bookshelves stuffed to bursting with tomes, manuscripts, rare spells and several large and very old volumes of various magic. Their covers were heavily warded and spelled, such books at the temple, at _any_ Temple, would have been incredibly rare, worth a small fortune and guarded day-and-night. Lady Macwell had, at least, a dozen such volumes.

But the centerpiece of the small library was this large orb, either crystal or some sort of glass, Boone wasn’t sure which. It was about ten inches in diameter and mounted at elbow height in an ornately carved wooden base. 

“I’m going to show you something, Lady Devonshire.” Talisa gestured to the orb, which was currently black as night. “This is a Dreaming Eye. Have you ever seen one?”

Boone shook her head. 

“They're very rare, so I'd have been surprised if you had. This is the only one I've ever found. With this, I can influence the dreams of any person that is currently being held by Asmodeus. It is subtle work but,” and the lady held up a knowing finger, “it is very effective. Come, look with me.” She placed her fingertips on the glass orb and looked expectantly at Boone.

The girl glanced around the study, to Gregor standing guard silent by the door. He nodded once to her. So Boone held her breath and touched the glass. 

Nothing happened. 

Talisa tittered. “Don’t worry, I have to direct it.” 

Boone felt the Eye swirl with _power,_ with presence, with a flood of despair and suffering _screams._ This was some kind of divination magic, enormously powerful, far beyond what Boone could hope to control. Yet Lady Macwell seemed to direct it effortlessly and a face appeared in the black crystal. 

“Cam,” Boone said it reflexively and instantly clamped her mouth shut but Lady Macwell did not look at her. He looked bad. The sorcerer seemed to be unconscious, tied up and limp as a corpse. 

“Yes, Leopold. Don't forget, my dear. Leopold. I had hoped to teach _him_ about this but, the fates have a strange way of coming around, don’t they?”

“What are you going to do?” Boone demanded, straightening up.

“I’m going to show you his dreams.” 

Boone hadn’t understood until she noticed the surface of the orb shift again to a little boy, excited to go to the battlements instead of his lessons. A dream that was based in a memory. Boone watched his anxious face as the men were executed and knew instinctively that this moment had been important to him. Something he became aware of on this day that he hadn’t been aware of previously. The possibility of an unjust world. And that Jildos, his home, might be unjust. And that no one seemed to care that much. 

“Now,” Talisa said, suddenly, “we will change something. We place his subconscious like so.” Lady Macwell _flexed_ her will over the Eye and the adult, Cam, appeared. “Because once you can command them in their dreams, the rest is much easier. But it takes time, depending on the strength of will.”

Boone shuddered inwardly. _Is that what she did to you, Gregor? She invaded your dreams, first..._

No one could protect their unconscious minds at every moment. Eventually, a person would relax and that would be all it would take. _She might already be in my head…_

“What do you think of this object, Lady Boone?” Talisa inquired, watching her very, very closely. 

Boone looked back at the woman and then down at the orb, expression guarded and neutral. _Careful._ “It is…an interesting tool.”

“A wise observation. A very interesting tool, indeed, my dear. Nothing more, nothing less.”

Cyrus was not much of one for small talk, even when he’d been alive. He thought himself a better fighter than speaker. Watching Kallas go to certain doom made him want to chat even less and so, he was silently grateful when Velicia took the lead in finding them shelter. 

She seemed to navigate the desolate shadowlands as if she had traveled it many times. Perhaps she had? Her gear and aesthetic led him to suppose she was some sort of mercenary, perhaps a traveler or sailor? Unlike his own armor, which had rusted and worn away, hers had some wear but appeared to still be in good shape. There was studded leather underneath the colorful fabrics. Her satchel had several brooches and pins, medals and medallions of various designs and styles all affixed to the front flap like a chunk of dragon scale. The tiefling stayed ahead of him, scouting up to a cave and tossing her torch inside. No animals, denizens or monsters ran out so they ducked in. 

She waved him back from their supplies. “I will make a small fire. You should rest, my friend.”

So the warlock sat at the mouth of the cave, against the wall and kept lookout. There was no day or night, just the haze of grey. _I have to think of some way to help or I will forget._

He had always taken commands from his brothers, then from his instructors, then from his superior officers. Exile had been terrible on him but, there had also been that tiny sliver of him that had felt _liberated_ for the first time in his life. 

It had surprised him because it was the same feeling he got when he would sneak away to paint the skyline. No need to take Leave. He could paint all damn day if he wanted to, if he had the supplies. And if he didn’t, he could go to a town and find work, surely? Or he could hunt and fish. So long as no one recognized him. So long as no one knew his name. The shame that gave him was like a heavy cloak, at the time. But Cyrus let it himself feel it, remember it. Good and bad, the remembering was important. For the alternative was to be ripped away for torture, or to be used in some way, by Asmodeus. 

And, in any case, he now recalled the truth. There was no need for shame and even if there were, he must accept it and move on. This place was overwhelming, the visions it could raise in the ash were unsettling, frightening sometimes. His grief and shame and regret would become literal chains in this place, dragging him down to make him _want_ to forget. 

_It is a weight of the mind, not the body._

“But do not be alone with your thoughts for _too_ long, my friend!” Velicia called to him as she coaxed a small, warm fire to life. 

Cyrus looked back at her and, for a moment, couldn’t reply. _Not alone._ Right. Just like working in small teams at the Academy. Work together, accomplish mission. Like when he had met Boone, Brenna and Kallas in Bryce's Landing. Work together, make money, buy paint. So the young man stood, walking his spear to the fire to sit across from the tiefling. “Where are you from?” 

For a moment, the tiefling looked surprised that he’d asked. “Oh, I do not remember, my friend. That was in the _Before This_ time,” Velicia answered, sitting on her knees and warming her hands. “I believe there might have been water?”

“Well, you do look like a traveler. Hmm. Or a bard?”

“I believe that this is all I had with me when I arrived here. But I have no way to know for certain so it doesn’t matter.” She waved a hand dismissively.

“Doesn’t matter?” Given everything that had happened since Kallas had found him, Cyrus was surprised. It reminded him again, like a tightening in his gut: _Don’t forget._

Velicia shrugged. “Eh, for now I make my own name. Velicia is a good name.”

“It doesn’t bother you?”

Velicia’s coal dark eyes flickered up, glittering in the firelight. “Names are just…things other people know. Just ideas. Those ideas can change.” Velicia gestured around the cave. “That was the past. This is my present. Right now, none of those past things can help me.”

Cyrus studied her. “But wouldn’t you rather be searching for your name right now?”

“No. The Raven Queen told me to help you until I found my name. She saved me from death, I assume. I don't know why. So this must all be part of the journey to reach it.”

“That’s quite a leap of faith. I mean, how do you know?”

“I don’t,” she answered simply. “But there’s nothing I could do about it, even if I did. I cannot simply leave, after all.” The tiefling shifted and then she looked at him, seeming to examine the human. “Where do you come from?”

“Jildos,” he answered, looking to the fire. He absently reached up, touching the scarred brand through his clothes.

“And you love this place? Jildos? It is not a city I know.”

“You’ve never _heard_ of it?” Cyrus replied, surprised. “It’s the most powerful military state in Naluri.”

“Well, to be fair, I might have but Velicia, unfortunately, doesn’t remember it. The shadows have talked about a place called Shield Peaks? Do you know this place?”

Cyrus had to shake his head. “….so then you might even be from Irulan?”

“Very possible. I was on the mortal plane at one time, at least. Though I can’t say for certain. All I remember is water, sand and this.” She touched the grip of her rapier, turning it into the firelight so he could see it. 

Cyrus realized he hadn't looked that closely before. The guard of the hilt resembled raven wings. Something about it seemed almost nostalgic, _familiar._ The craftsmanship was superb and the blade still rust-free and perfect. Cyrus glanced at his spear with the raven wings on the cross-piece. “Was that a gift from the Raven Queen?”

Velicia shook her head. “No. She told me it would help me because it came here with me. Apparently.”

That made Cyrus glance down at Kallas’ rapier, still belted to his hip. _Don’t forget._

“Well, I suppose I will not know until the time is right, yes? Until then, we must hope for our friend. That he is clever enough to trick a devil king.”

Cyrus gripped the rapier hilt and frowned. “Do you think he can?”

The tiefling shrugged. “I do not know. I hope so. The Raven Queen believes we face planar collapse, if not.” 

Cyrus started. "Planar _collapse?"_

She looked him in the eye when she nodded. "I am not very good at explaining--very complex magic and stealing enough souls to rip through the Material Planes? But, suffice to say, very bad. On a scale of one to ten, this is probably a fifteen." 

“No pressure. Shit.” He snorted softly. “But I suppose if any of us could, it would be him.” Cyrus frowned at the dim fire. _Planar collapse, for fuck's sake._ He was going to need to take a moment to think about that. “I have another question.” He glanced up at her until she made eye contact with him. “I cannot summon my halberd. Do you know why that would be?”

Velicia pondered, rubbing her chin. “You died with it, yes? And you are bound to it by the Lady?” When Cyrus nodded, she shrugged. “Well, I don’t know. Certainly, you have your own sort of weirdness going on, yes? You have many…_things_ inside of you, my friend.”

The warlock made sure his eyepatch was secured before he drew out the clear gem. “When I looked through this, I saw my friend, Boone. She was asleep. I saw flashes from my own life, and bits and pieces of others too. But it was disjointed.”

“How many times have you looked?” Velicia wanted to know.

“Just once because when I did…something happened.” He frowned to himself. “The Devil King found me almost immediately. Only Kal—my friend, he saved me. But when I looked into the gem that my friend had, his was green…but nothing happened. I just saw…._him._ Pieces of who he was. But the Devil King did not suddenly find us again. So I am wary of looking into my gem but it is the only way I might be able to find Boone. My friend said she was still alive but…it made me uneasy. I only saw her face but something seemed….just _off._ But if I look again, _he_ may somehow find us.”

“No, it makes sense to be wary, friend,” Velicia agreed, nodding vehemently. “That’s dangerous magic and the farther you stay from the Devil King, the better. I don’t _think_ he can actually take you until you forget—but best to be on the safe side, my friend.”

Suddenly, a shadow sifted up from the ash. A man with dark hair, dressed for traveling and armed, raced into the cave. _”Oh no. No! NO!”_

Cyrus and Velicia both jumped up but the shade ignored them, racing over the fire towards the back of the cave. Another memory, perhaps, but it was no one that Cyrus recognized.

_”Liesel! Liesel!”_ The human was shouting, throwing himself to his knees next to a sandy figure of a woman. There was a falchion sticking out of her back, brutally pinned to the stone through her dress. They heard him tremble when he realized she was dead: a desperate, tiny, fractured cry. He pulled the sword from the woman, almost threw it down—and then stopped. The man stared at the falchion, clearly recognizing it. _”…Morgan?”_

And then he and the woman’s body blew away, though no wind entered the cave. Cyrus and Velicia looked at each other. “I don’t suppose he looked familiar to you?” Cyrus asked her. 

The tiefling seemed intrigued and drew her rapier again to examine it. “No, my friend. But the sword at his hip did.”  
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	14. From the Grave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Confluence: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7hqJt6JQGxM  
\---------------
> 
> Boone took a deep breath before she stepped onto the pier. The old woman stepped off too. “Child, you got grave times ahead of you. Good luck.” She offered out a small mundane dagger, hilt-first.  
\---------------

_(Flashes in the dark, blue light and stars so bright that everything was blurring together)_

Her eyes opened but it was pitch darkness. Her eyes could not register anything around her but an oppressive sense of tightness, difficult to move. _I can’t see._ She smelled fresh turned _earth._ There was dirt above her, beside her, beneath her, she could feel the grains on her skin. Boone cast her hands around her, realizing she was _underground,_ as if in a _grave—_

The shadow standing over her bed in the Guest Wing, the icy bite into her flesh—

Her fingers went to her throat and she _felt_ molted tissue. A panicked sound quaked out of her. Boone jerked her fingers away, scrambling at the earth, digging up into the soft dirt and sobbing as she escaped into the moonlight. The girl drug herself away, frantically checking the dark. But it was empty, a ravine below a set of cliffs. She was alone. She was covered in _blood._

Her cry was strangled, horrified, staggering up to flee. _Run! Run! To the docks! To the port! Anywhere!_ Whoever had tried to….to dump her in the woods could be nearby. That was all her brain could process as she sprinted through the trees. Her feet were bare, and her nightdress stiff with blood. The wind went right through it but she couldn’t feel it. Boone didn’t feel anything.

She avoided the seaside villages and shanties, and instead raced out to one of the old lighthouses. There were several that dotted the coast of Jildos. She had no concept of time passing, just running, concentrating on breathing, steady and focused because _what the fuck happened_ but she couldn’t fucking deal with _that_ right now. Her vision had tunneled to one lonely lighthouse, smaller and disused. 

She staggered in and collapsed, sobbing. 

An old woman found her the next morning, still in her blood-soaked nightdress and covered in cuts and bruises. She appeared to be some sort of caretaker, as she had on a belt of tools. Boone had jumped awake very abruptly to the old woman standing a careful distance back. 

“You look like you been through it.” The keeper had a craggy, sun-browned face, intelligent brown eyes and she was looking at her like maybe Boone wasn’t the first wayward soul to take refuge there. 

Boone pushed herself up against the wall. She automatically touched her throat before she recoiled with a jerk. The bloody clothing was stiff against her skin. The girl shuddered as she tried to nod.

“Don’t worry. I won’t ask the why, don’t need no name. You need to get out of the city?”

Boone took a deep, gasping breath and nodded again. 

“Well, jus’ so happens I’m a fisherman. I’ll get you some clothes and I’ll take you to the port nearest Avargard. You stay put one minute?” The old woman held up a gnarled finger. The girl nodded. It looked like the child had taken some sort of beating. There was heavy bruising around her neck and face and that new, _raw_ looking scar on her throat told of a very violent attack. 

So the old woman backed out and left the child. She was a magnificent, tall girl, and strong-looking, so the old woman grabbed some clothes she kept aside for ship hands and a scrap of sailcloth. When she returned, the girl had not moved, still pressed up against the wall of the lighthouse like a cornered animal. 

The old woman held out the clothes and dropped them on the floor about two feet from the girl. “Nothing fancy but should fit you enough to get you outta that slip. Step outside when you’re ready, child.” 

Boone watched the old woman back out and gently shut the door. The clothing was simple, roughspun but clean and dry. Slowly, she uncurled her limbs. Her toenails were in bloody shape and there were cuts and slashes from her flight through the woods all over her legs and feet. Everything stung and burned as she shakily stood, shivering. 

Her nightdress crackled from the blood and she had to strangle a whimper as she forced the garment over her head. It fluttered to the floor. Swiftly, she grabbed the muslin shirt and pulled it on. Boone tied a yellow sash around the trousers for a belt and pulled on the old pair of boots. Boone stuffed the nightdress into her pocket.

She winced out of the lighthouse to a crystal clear morning. Gulls called over the tide as the mist began to burn away from the glittering sun. Boone covered her eyes and took another shaking breath of the salt air.

The old woman was waiting with some sailcloth. “Here, pin this over your shoulders.”

Boone took the heavy sailcloth and did so. It covered her neck to ankle and would keep the rain off. The old woman led her to a rickety pier with an old seaworn boat tied to it. The lady was nimble as a mouse as she got the single sail down and tied. “Untie us from the pier, if you would.”

Boone went, automatically, fingers stumbling over the knots before she furiously wiped her eyes and then forced her fingers to it properly. She pulled the rope into the little sailboat.

“Sit here, child,” the old woman directed her to a plank in the middle of the boat. “No sudden jumping about once we get into the Straits. The sea is calm this morning but you don’t want to overturn in the middle.”

The old woman took the rudder and the wind caught them. She stayed sitting and asked nothing of Boone. For two hours there was a soothing sort of quiet as the old woman minded the sailboat. 

Boone wiped her eyes on her makeshift cloak. _Someone tried to kill me. I can’t return to Jildos but I can’t go home. What would I say? Who would believe me? Who could have gotten into the guest wing but someone among the Macwells or my own parents? Why would someone try to kill me?_

Her fingers found their way to her throat again, this time she was ready when she touched the scarring. It was wide and traced almost the whole stump of her neck. So perhaps the better question was: _How did I survive?_

The wind was making her eyes water. Boone ducked her face into her cloak and if she shook a little, the old woman didn’t say anything. By the time they reached a tiny dock at a fishing inlet out of sight of the nearby villages, the sun was rolling into afternoon. 

Boone took a deep breath before she stepped onto the pier. The old woman stepped off too. “Child, you got grave times ahead of you. Good luck.” She offered out a small mundane dagger, hilt-first. 

Boone shuddered. “….th-thank you.” Her voice sounded raw and husky. She accepted the dagger and shook the old woman’s hand. 

And there, they separated. _I wonder what happened to her?_

But when Boone turned away, there was someone standing in front of her. A smallish humanoid with dark brown hair and cloudy, blind eyes. She wore the garb of a peasant farmer in green and yellow roughspun. _“The Lady cannot observe me, my friend. I am part of a memory that she cannot perceive.”_

Boone stared at the blind girl, perplexed, for she had the strangest feeling she’d seen this girl before. “Part of a memory?”

_“Don’t forget!”_ The girl pointed to Boone’s hip.

When the paladin’s hand followed to her pocket, the bloody nightdress was gone, instead she found a feather. The name shot to the front of her brain: _”Thioni!”_

_“I can go where you cannot, my friend.”_

Boone closed her eyes and everything from the pier to the sea to the old woman, turned to ash around her. Only Thioni stood about five feet from Boone, on the edge of the glowing light. Beyond that edge was a thick, inky darkness. 

Boone’s mind raced: Dagna would not have the magical power or the ability to use the dreaming sphere nor to kill Gregor and Lady Macwell on her own. Cam probably wouldn’t either. He was pretty strong, certainly and he was a decent sorcerer but Lady Macwell was willing to do _terrible_ things. Not to mention, they were family and there was always the chance he might hesitate. And Lady Macwell had indicated that she’d intended to teach her younger son about her craft, so there was also a likely scenario in which the woman had created certain triggers or spell effects specifically with him in mind. Like with that damn sword she’d given to Cam after cutting off his father’s head. _What a fucked up family._

As far as Boone had learned about the Macwell brothers, Leopold was of a sorcerer line (a temperamental sort, the temple paladins had always told her) but Gregor seemed to have no affinity for magics at all. But here, following around Lady Macwell like a beaten dog, he had performed certain small spells. He could loosen ropes, unlock doors and presumably, could use the mirror to draw souls from wherever Asmodeus was to this plane. Who knew what Lady Macwell had done to him, after all? He was some sort of deathlock now, perhaps? Bound to his mother, rather than Asmodeus? So they would always be linked? She was always _listening._

Boone was certain she herself might be able to kill Lady Macwell or Gregor separately, but definitely not together. And it would be safe to assume that Lady Macwell could force Cam’s elder brother to fight on her behalf. But if Gregor was the support stone, maybe Boone could be the chisel to break it loose.

_"Gregor. Help Gregor."_  
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	15. Boon from Boone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Belantheer and the idea of its existence in the Shadowfell is just a thing I made up.
> 
> I also went with Gregor Macwell as a Lawful Good.  
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Stronger than Fate: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LMr7ZMHuyf8&list=PLQuOKHNudkme-P2XykOQOMLhdu_WjLR7A&index=56  
\-------------------  
Gregor furrowed his eyebrows. “Devonshire….” His dream still existed on the other side of the mirror. He could see himself, still frozen and Lady De'Boon, still standing next to him. But where he was, where he _really_ was…Devonshire was there. Trapped. Yes, that was correct. She was trapped, along with Leopold and the bard. Their tiefling friend had been found later in the Shadowfell. And the last, Sabal, was still unaccounted for, hidden. 
> 
> .  
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“Did you spend the whole night in meditation, dear?” Lady Macwell asked, entering the bedroom with her hands clasped.

Boone was seated in front of the fireplace, facing the bedroom door and at her question, the paladin eyed her. “I have no sense of time here. Day and night look the same,” she answered, voice flat and terse.

“I see, my dear. And there was no response, I take it?” Lady Macwell asked sweetly.

Boone scowled and looked back at the hearth. There had been none. For hours, she sat, she paced, she talked to herself and to the walls. She prayed and finally begged but nothing happened. No whispers, no visions, no sudden bursts of inspiration. Nothing. 

Just a single moment with Thioni after she’d finally dozed off. Somehow, the blind genasi had appeared in her dreams. Boone had no idea how the genasi expected to help them from their dreams but she wasn’t even sure _how_ Thioni had gotten there in the first place. Talisa apparently couldn’t perceive her? How did that work? Wouldn’t all three of them have memories of Thioni? 

If it hadn’t been for the feather being in the place of the nightdress, Boone would have been seriously considering that Lady Macwell might have done it to trick her. But the feather was different. There had been a feather in Cam’s dream too, next to the little boy’s foot. And the feather that she’d found in her pocket after Jildos. At the time, she was sure it was, somehow, from Cyrus. _Maybe it still is. Maybe our memories connect._ But if they had been trapped in an illusion since the island battle, maybe that had been an attempt to get her attention? Boone sighed, internally because, well, they’d still ended up here. 

She was truly alone now, in the Shadowfell, with an extremely powerful necromancer who was connected to the Devil King. Cam and Dagna were trapped. Cyrus and Kallas were dead. _I have to make a decision. I have to do something. I can’t rely on Thioni to get out of this._

Boone took a deep breath. “No. There was no response.”

“I hope you understand that I simply want you to recognize your new reality. I am not going to lie to you, Boone. Gods typically don’t act on our behalf. We have to engage the world ourselves, not wait for them to give us a list on a platter. We can make our own power if we but learn our tools and then _master_ them.”

Boone glowered at the fire. _What would Kallas do?_ The tiny voice deep in her gut answered: _He would try and use their tools against them. Just like the contract that snapped his neck._

Lady Macwell sat in the armchair opposite Boone in front of the fire. “No one wants to think that they didn’t do everything they could have, after they lose someone. But you had time to work _with_ Sabal and chose not to. And yet, both of you had your bodies restored after death. I have to wonder what might have been if you _had_ been willing to cooperate with him. You might have killed me outright. Or perhaps you would have died and the warlock would now be in front of me? But who knows how other fates in other worlds might have fared. We have the tools of our present available to us, should you wish to continue your studies.”

Boone looked up at Talisa. “And if I don’t?”

That chilling smile crossed the necromancer’s lovely face. “Then you will be returned to your body permanently. And you will be trapped and tortured for all eternity by Asmodeus, King of the Nine Hells. Either way, my dear, I benefit.”

Boone looked down into her lap. _Steady now. Hidden thoughts, hidden mind._ And then she straightened up in the chair, back ramrod stiff and she lifted her chin. The paladin looked the necromancer in the eye: “All right. What can you show me?”

The shadow mastiffs howled.

Velicia whirled around. Their path had taken them north when the warlock had asked about the cities of the shadowplanes. The nearest such city was Belantheer so she led him up jagged black rock cliffs on the south edge of the city so they might remain unobserved. But the mighty beasts of the Shadar-kai still had an amazing sense of smell for wandering entities. 

Cyrus turned as well, his spear swooping out, making the pack lead jump back and growl. Velicia bounded forward, giving one of the dogs a kick. There were six of them, circling and growling. And then four humanoid figures approached, three males and one female. 

“I would back off, if I were you, friends. We want no issue with you,” Velicia called to them, quickening a spell in her left hand. Cyrus could sense the faint glow and aura of an evocation from her, which was interesting, as she'd not shown any magic yet.

One of the males lifted a bow. They appeared to be shadar-kai, the grey skin and the black hair were like camouflage in the dim of the Shadowfell. One of the shadow elves drew a sword and said, in heavily accented Common: “Unfortunately, others have noticed your arrival.”

The archer drew and Velicia threw down her _Forcecage,_ trapping the dogs. Cyrus _stepped,_ misting through them and whirling on their backs. Velicia sprinted around the cage and her fist began to _spark._ The archer loosed his arrow. The tiefling punched out and the very air seemed to implode around her, a wave of electrical discharge blasted the animals and two of the shadar-kai. The arrow burst into splinters when the wave of sparks hit it. The fourth shadow elf was turning to cast on Cyrus.

The warlock bounced close, thrusting with the spear. The shadar-kai, a male, dodged, dancing from the lethal edge and slamming into Cyrus. They rolled on the rock, throwing up a wave of ash.

Velicia dashed up on the archer, slashing with her rapier. The two shadow elves she’d blasted back were lumbering up. One drew a sword, the other, the female, cast a bolt of fire at her. The bright flame was searing in the darkness, blasting the tiefling off her feet.

The spear from the Raven Queen clattered to the stone and the shadow elf punched Cyrus squarely in the nose once, before snatching a dagger and pulling back to stab. Cyrus lunged up, grabbed the man’s throat and the moisture, the fluids, seemed to drain right out of him. The shadar-kai choked in surprise and tried to pry the human's fingers from his neck but it was too late. Cyrus leeched the life from him, blighted and rotted from the inside. The tongue shriveled up, skin crackled, the eyes collapsed and then Cyrus threw the body aside, feeling his dragon eye _pulse._ He drew Kallas’ rapier as he sprinted towards Velicia. 

The messenger was staggering up, beating at the liquid fire on her gear, when she felt the unrelenting _grip_ of a holding spell clamp down over her. It trapped her fast and the fire flared hotter, feasting to reach flesh. The shadar-kai with the sword raced towards her but before he hit, they both heard a loud _crack._

The mage suddenly screeched as she was _jolted_ by a blackened bolt of necrotic magic. The _hold_ on Velicia instantly failed and she threw her arms out to cast _Shatter._ The shadow elf swinging his sword at her was slammed back, cursing as his sword burst apart and when he tried to regain his feet, Cyrus ran Kallas’ rapier through his throat.

The warlock examined the blade after he drew it out, flicking the blood off. He hadn’t noticed the inscription on it before: _Justice, Truth, Judgement_

It was also magical, which he might have guessed from what Kallas had told him but this sword allowed him to cast _Finger of Death_ on the elf woman. And it definitely seemed like it might be capable of other spells. He glanced back at the mage, who was just starting to rise as an Undead servant, and then sheathed the weapon.

Velicia was pulling a glob of something fleshy off of her unchipped horn. “Nice work, my friend. And you have a zombie now?”

“You, as well. And I guess so. This sword has a _lot_ of magic attuned to it.” The zombie shadar-kai lumbered up to them. Cyrus summoned his spear, it flipped into his hand with a satisfying _thmmmp_ and then he pointed up the hill. “The cliffs over the city are here, yes?” He waved to the zombie to get her attention. “Keep about fifteen paces behind us. Don’t let anyone sneak up on us, all right?” The Undead elf nodded and dutifully did so.

Velicia led the way, hiking up the steep hill to mount the cliffs that overlooked Belantheer. She knelt down, as there were guards on the city walls below and pointed. “See there, my friend. This is it, the city of Belantheer. The shadows have told me that it is an echo of that same city you mentioned, Ebreosea.”

“Are there a lot of these dark cities?” Cyrus asked, keeping low to the rock as they peered over the cliffs. 

“I have not been to all but there are a few,” Velicia told him. “Everwinter is a place of Undead and slaves. A terrible, terrible place for a mortal. There is also Gloomwrought. Apparently, it is an echo of a floating city called Thultanthar in one of the material planes. It has humanoids, like us—but they are those that have adapted to this realm.”

“How is this place, for mortals?”

Velicia looked away from the city, searching his eyes to detect how serious he was and her lips thinned. “Likely not very safe. Velicia would not advise it. But if you want to enter the city, we should wear hoods and not draw attention to ourselves.”

Cyrus peered again into the grey haze. The layout of the city looked similar to when they had visited Ebreosea. The temple was probably in the same place, where he’d wandered after the horrific crash in the middle of the city. 

A shadow of ash sifted next to the human, forming a child lifting her little hands towards Cyrus. _”You look sad, mister.”_ She offered him a paper bird. 

“Thank you,” Cyrus muttered automatically, sitting up and reaching out for it. He had actually thought it would turn to ash in his fingers but a yellow paper bird was now sitting in his hand. Cyrus leaned in, examining the folds. It appeared to be real paper. The shadow of the girl vanished. _Yellow birds…._

Then a cleric sifted up from the ash, took the bird from him, placed it back in his fingers, twice over and each time: _“Very interesting.”_ When the cleric turned to dust, the yellow paper bird still remained in Cyrus’ hand. 

_That was the cleric who told me about the Scarlet Coast forest. The Order of the Bloodfern druids. That was how we got to the Sanctuary. Could it be possible that the Sanctuary might exist here?_

Velicia was staring at him, wide-eyed. “…..are you all right, my friend? I have never seen a shade leave something behind.” She nodded towards the paper bird.

"I believe it is real." Cyrus offered it out for examination. 

She gingerly took it by one wing. “That is very peculiar, friend. Unsettling. Does this mean something to you?” The tiefling sat up, away from the cliff edge, peering at him with those dark, glittering eyes.

The warlock frowned. “I was in Ebreosea when it was attacked, an airship crashed into the city. A little girl gave me this when I went to the clerics there, because I was Undead, at the time.”

Velicia started. “You were _Undead?!”_

“I was, for a time.” 

“Your life has been very strange, my friend.” Velicia gently put the bird back in Cyrus’ hand. 

“Tell me about it.” _Yellow birds…_

“But, friend, keep hold of that. I’ve never seen a shade leave a physical object behind.”

“I’m trying to remember….something about yellow birds. Something important, I think.” With his luck, it was probably crucial. It was recent, he was sure. Something that happened before Jildos but after the Sanctuary. 

“Do you still want to enter the city?”

Cyrus looked thoughtful. “How close is the geography of this place compared to the material plane?”

“All worlds cross here, friend. All of them are possible. The landscape shifts and changes.”

“Do you know how these changes are influenced?”

Velicia shrugged her shoulders. “Magic, powerful memories, spirits, from what I understand, they all can.”

Cyrus backed away from the edge of the cliffs. “On my plane, to the northeast of Ebreosea was the Cerise Sanctuary. That is where my body was restored. But it was a thousand miles, at least. We took a ship to get to the Bloodfern druids there.” He pulled out the diamond. “That’s where I got this.”

“Well, without knowing it would actually be there, we cannot simply teleport.” Velicia took off her ring of bangles and went to the one that had no talisman at all. She unhooked it from the others. It appeared to be an etched piece of glass. Velicia raised it in front of them. “My Lady, our friend believes something important might exist in a place called the Cerise Sanctuary. Does that place exist in the the Shadowfell?”

The etchings shimmered and they both heard an unfamiliar but friendly voice answer: _”Ah, yes, I can help with this. Allow me.”_

It was not the Raven Queen that appeared next to them but a young man in non-descript weather-worn clothes, a cloak and a traveling pack. He had a walking stick in one hand and appeared human with shaggy brown hair and bright blue eyes. He smiled cheerfully at them and reached out his hands. “Come, my friends. If only that we could have met on the road, we would have such tales to trade. But I know that haste is of more import, for now.”

Cyrus glanced at Velicia but the tiefling was stepping ahead of him. “Who are you? You are not the Raven Queen.”

“No, but I was with her. I am a friend. And as it turns out, this task is my specialty. I owe her a favor. You want to find the Sanctuary, a temple of a god, but here in the Shadowfell? There is one that might have what you are looking for.” 

Cyrus and Velicia in their minds both heard, in the Raven Queen’s echoing whispers: _”He is a friend. He will take you where you need to go. The next step is nearly in place. Follow the bird.”_

They exchanged glances before taking the man’s hands. There was a _pop!_ And they reappeared outside of a dark woods that spread for miles to the north.

The kindly man tapped the dark earth with his walking stick. "Head north into the forest. There are ruins there. Sometimes, when mortals end up in the Shadowfell, they try to reach out to other gods. And there are times and spaces and places, where and when the gods can reach back. I believe that this will be one of those times. You are not forgotten, friends. Remember that, no matter what you find or fight there." 

"Can you tell us what we can expect?" Cyrus pressed, watching the strange human carefully. Everything about the man was nondescript, like a simple traveler in any crossroads tavern. He just felt a bit _odd._ But at the same time, trustworthy. Like making an unexpected friend on the road. 

"Just danger, friends. This place is still very treacherous. And you will likely see visions and shadows, if you haven't already." The young man offered out his hand to Cyrus and when he took it, he said: “Our paths will cross again, friend.” His blue eyes were warm but his smile was sad. He squeezed Cyrus’ hand, bowed to Velicia and then he vanished. 

Cyrus furrowed his eyebrows. “Do you know who that was?”

“No, but he felt strange. Like the Lady does.” Velicia shrugged. “He said you’d see him again?”

Cyrus groaned, dragging his hands down his face. “I am a little bit sick of gods right now.”

The tiefling burst out laughing. “That’s the spirit, my friend!” 

The paper bird suddenly flapped its wings and flew out of Cyrus’ hand, sailing in front of the two of them. It made a small, musical sound, like chimes, and then flew to the forest edge. It was packed with dead and rotting trees, so close and gloomy that the darkness was almost absolute passed the tree line. The paper bird made another chiming sound.

Cyrus sighed again. “Well, I guess we follow, probably to certain death. Whatever that means here.”

“Come now! Nothing worth having is ever easily had, my friend!” She squinted into the trees as she approached the paper bird, which was now emanating a faint golden light. 

“Gods always speak in riddles and half-truths, it would be simpler if they just said what they wanted!”

“You’ll have to take that up with them. You’re an interesting human, and I like you, but not _that_ much.”

Gregor had worn his formal dress armor when he met Lady Devonshire at the lunch attended by his mother and her parents. For the second meeting (just Lady De'Boon and the Macwells, this time) he wore a formal dark red doublet, fine trousers and his boots. Leopold was coming to this dinner, at their mother’s insistence. He was dressed in subdued navy blue and he already looked bored as he lounged in a cushioned chair against the wall.

There was a soft knock on the door and Gregor turned away from the looking glass as his mother entered the room. She knitted her fingers together. “Are you ready, my love?” 

Gregor nodded and gave a bracing smile to his brother. “Save me if I do something stupid?”

“Damn, I was gonna tell you the same thing.” But Leopold grinned at him.

“Try not to. She seems lovely, just awkward and alone a lot, from what I understand,” Talisa Macwell told them as she led the way out of the room. “So keep the sarcasm to a minimum, Leopold.” She shot him a warning glance. Leopold returned a mockingly flourished bow.

A servant opened the dining room doors for them. A bard was in a shadowy corner, strumming a lute quietly. 

The girl was standing in front of the fireplace in a black gown. Her shoulders were bare and her sleeves cuffed. Her black hair fell artfully around her neck and when she turned to face them, she offered a curtsy. “Lady Macwell, Lord Gregor, good evening.”

“Lady Devonshire,” Gregor took the cue flawlessly, stepping forward. “Allow me to introduce my younger brother, Leopold Macwell. He will be joining us this evening.”

Dutifully, the younger Macwell bowed over his arm. “Good evening, Lady De'Boon.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Lord Leopold,” Lady Devonshire replied politely. She was very pale as they sat at the table. Around her throat she wore a stark black chain with a serpentine dragon pendant on it.

Gregor sat at the head of the table, his mother to his right and Leopold next to her. Devonshire sat at Gregor’s left. She didn’t quite seem to know what to talk about, or what to do with her hands. She reminded him of some of the younger soldiers Gregor had trained with. He was to be Grand Steward, after all, so while he had learned to fight from their master-at-arms, he didn’t enter formal military training until he turned fourteen.

He had an early edge on most of his class, but the days were still long and full of tactics, leadership, survival, combat, history, mathematics, anatomy and navigation. Gregor had begun like every other academy student. At the bottom. And slowly but surely, he worked his way up. At sixteen, he spent two years on a ship, learning to sail as every other soldier for Jildos learned.

Leadership had come naturally to Gregor. It had been pushed upon him his entire life. It became more real as he faced constant challenges from his instructors and peers. A young man with a famous name, attached to such wealth and power, Gregor could see where strangers might perceive only a spoiled princeling. So the Macwell heir was determined to prove them wrong. If he were to lead the strong arm of his city one day, then he must be adaptable and knowledgeable. And the only way to get good at something, was to be really bad at it for a while. His ego never seemed to get in the way and this endeared him to the men and women he served with. And even as he gained rank and authority, Gregor never commanded another to do something that he was unwilling to do himself. 

Gregor had been commissioned as an officer when he reached the rank of sergeant. Then had come the real test, to see what he truly knew and if he could teach it to others. Fresh-faced village boys and rowdy street thugs all must learn to obey in some way or another. But Gregor almost always won them over with his sincerity and fairness. Younger soldiers were a bit nervous sometimes without a task to fulfill. That was what Devonshire made him think of. She wanted to have a weapon or do something constructive. And now that Gregor was looking at her, the girl was as tall and as strong as a young tree. He might even be able to practice with her. _That_ would be something. Alluring in a way he hadn’t really considered before, given that the vast majority of human women were not nearly his height. 

_I wonder how my mother learned of this girl?_

“I have heard that you’ve trained at length to use a sword,” Gregor began, smiling encouragingly at the young Lady. 

Her eyes darted around for a moment, as if surprised that he was speaking to her, and then she managed a little smile. “The broadsword, short sword, and long sword but I liked the greatsword best.” 

“Me too!” Gregor beamed enthusiastically. “More momentum, yeah? You swing that around and you feel like you could crash the battlements yourself.”

That seemed to help her relax a little. Her conversation was still stilted, like she wasn’t accustomed to speaking for long periods of time but she wasn’t stupid. Lady Devonshire kept right up as they discussed weapons and preferred styles of gear. 

“I am a little uncomfortable in gowns,” she admitted, giving another shy smile. “I much prefer trousers.”

Gregor chuckled. “Well, next time, skip it. If my mother and your mother keep scheduling us like this, then you should be comfortable. Besides, I imagine that you look just as lovely in your gear as you do in a gown.”

She looked taken aback, surprised for a moment and her cheeks burned with a flush of pink. “Oh, I—well, thank you. I mean, you too. I mean—ugh, I’m sorry.”

Gregor laughed, booming and warm. “I don’t know if I could wear it as well as you.”

“You might have to let the seams out a little bit,” Leopold threw in, smirking. He had finished the first course, a thick beef stew and was sipping mulled wine as servants came to exchange plates for roasted duck in garlic sauce and scallops. 

Lady De'Boon finally managed a small laugh, covering her mouth with her hand. 

It was sometime after the dessert course (glazed fruit tarts, candied nuts, lemon cakes) and they had moved to comfy chairs by the fireplace that Leopold quietly excused himself. That had likely been a compromise. Gregor assumed his mother would then come up with some excuse to give him a few minutes alone with Lady Devonshire. And that was exactly what happened, once a last pitcher of wine was placed on a warming stone on the sideboard and plates were cleared away. Lady Macwell cited a need to check on Lord Macwell and excused herself. 

The lute player was still in the corner, so they were not totally alone. Gregor clapped his hands on his knees before he announced, “Well, my lady, would you like to dance a little?”

Devonshire made an expression that reminded him of every single time Leopold had let his face say something that he hadn’t intended to communicate and Gregor fought the urge to laugh. But De'Boon said: “I…I can’t dance.”

“You can’t?” Gregor inquired. “You never learned?”

She shrugged one pale shoulder, glowing warm gold in the fire light. “The Temple didn’t really teach dance.”

“Hey, now, if you can fight, you can dance. This is a fact. C’mon.” Gregor held out a hand to her. 

“I don’t know if that’s true….”

“Well, you’ll never find out if you don’t _try.”_

Those sky blue eyes flickered up to him, searching his face anxiously and then she slowly reached up and took his hand. 

Gregor bowed to her and gently urged her up with him. She seemed so tense and guarded, so the Macwell heir made sure his movements were open and inviting. He was a gentleman, after all, his mother insisted he had been so from seven years old. “I will take your hand, my lady, and we shall try. If you can fight, you can dance. I’m sure of it.”

It was not exactly a graceful lesson. Gregor found it a little bit surprising, really. Lady Devonshire became very self-conscious. Maybe that had something to do with her unusual height? Or perhaps it was the difference in age? Or maybe it was her social class, or the paladin order? Could she have taken vows of some kind? _Slow down, Gregor. Don’t overthink it. Just be respectful._

“Now, I’ll take a step forward with my left and you step back, ebb and flow, you see?” 

When they managed a dozen steps without tripping, Gregor teased her with a smile, sweeping out in a flourish with one hand. They were in front of the sideboard, and the mirror above it reflected his earnest grin. 

Devonshire smiled as she met his gaze in the glass. That was when Gregor noticed that her necklace had changed. It was no longer a serpent pendant but some sort of white feather. He stopped, peering at it in the mirror. Had it always been a feather? He was sure it had been a dragon earlier. Gregor looked away from the mirror.

Devonshire was looking back at him, curiously. Her necklace was the serpent pendent again. Gregor furrowed his eyebrows. “That’s so weird. For a moment, I saw….” But when he looked into the mirror, the pendant was a feather. Gregor rubbed his eyes. He examined the reflection for a moment and then reached out to touch it—

He felt a sensation like _lifting_ and a heady blast of cool air. And suddenly, he was standing in darkness. The only light was coming in through the mirror that now hung behind him in the void of blackness like a creepy painting. 

_”Peace, friend. You need a place in your head that you can go to remember. So that you can see out again.”_

Gregor frowned, examining the blackness of his surroundings, how large and empty this space felt, whatever it was. And the mirror where he saw himself, still standing next to Devonshire. He could see her necklace was the serpent pendant. 

_“Gregor.”_ A pair of eyes were peering out of the dark. Gregor put a hand on the dagger at his thigh. A brown-haired blind girl stepped into the very edge of the light. She wore servants’ clothing. He had not noticed her before around the castle. _”There’s something you need to do. You have to wake up.”_

Gregor stared at her, wrinkling his nose. “Wake up? I _am_ awake.”

_”Gregor. Your brother is in danger. You know that already.”_

Gregor started because he…._did_ know that. Didn’t he. Yes, his little brother was tied up with black, slimy ropes—

“Leopold,” Gregor muttered. Like a match being struck, awareness flared in him. 

_”Gregor, you can be awake but the Lady cannot know that you are awake.”_

“How? She is always _listening.”_

_“Devonshire told me to help you. So I will help you learn to hide.”_

Gregor furrowed his eyebrows. “Devonshire….” His dream still existed on the other side of the mirror. He could see himself, still frozen and Lady De'Boon, still standing next to him. But where he was, where he _really_ was…Devonshire was there. Trapped. Yes, that was correct. She was trapped, along with Leopold and the bard. Their tiefling friend had been found later in the Shadowfell. And the last, Sabal, was still unaccounted for, hidden. 

Sabal…that name was familiar too. The young man that Talisa had done something to. Gregor did not know the exact details. His mother had not been keen to expel the finer points of whatever terrible things she had done. And when he had woken up from death, Gregor hadn’t felt quite…right. He was disoriented, he began to hear voices or faint music that he couldn’t find the source of. His dreams were terrible, he lived his death a thousand times. And his mother had…_done_ something to him with magic…

The darkness sifted like ash and suddenly, Gregor was standing next to his mother in the courtyard, looming over Jildos. He could not move or speak but he was looking up when the streak of glinting gold _flashed_ across the sky. 

“Sabal,” Talisa muttered, scowling, following the dragon with her eyes as it razed flame upon the ground forces. “I wonder how he came upon a dragon.”

_Leo, you have made some amazing friends._

The dragon flashed by again, much closer this time. Gregor watched Sabal point at them with his halberd and then dart off. 

The images collapsed.

Gregor stood again, in darkness, and the mirror was glowing in the empty air beside him. “Who are you?”

_”I am here to help. A boon, from a Boone.”_  
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	16. Binding in Mischief

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sunder, by Really Slow Motion: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m6lViC50N8o&list=PLQuOKHNudkme-P2XykOQOMLhdu_WjLR7A&index=112  
\----------------  
Opportunity Knocks, Mischief Climbs in the Window  
Queen of Witches: https://penrith.fandom.com/wiki/Queen_of_Witches  
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“Nicnevin! See! I found you an assistant! A mortal, even! This human should serve you quite stupendously. I’ve worked with her before! It seems Jazirian is hiding inside of her as well, but you can work around him, right?”  
\----------------

“Do you understand why your paladins told you that sorcerers are temperamental magic users?”

Boone was sitting in a drawing room, scattered with fine rugs and woven carpets. There was a harpsichord by the single window. But it, like all other windows, had a thick curtain over it. These were dark emerald green, hung to match the green marble inlay of the fireplace. All light was muted in the Shadowfell, Boone was learning, and though the fire burned large, the room was still cloaked in darkness. 

Gregor was at his post by the door, standing guard. He stared ahead, eyes blank. If Thioni had somehow reached him, he showed no sign of it when Boone had searched his eyes for just a moment as he’d escorted her to the drawing room. 

“They said it was because the magic is innate and requires a willful personality to control it.”

“Correct. What that means is, since you are _not_ a sorcerer, some raw necromancy will be beyond you. However, the next best thing is a pact with a devil, very similar to a paladin’s relationship to her patron. Similar to Sabal and his bound weapon to the Raven Queen. I believe he was familiar with warlock magics?”

Boone looked at the floor and nodded. 

“Asmodeus would, of course, be the preferred choice, in your situation. The ritual requires a willing participant and for that participant to make the choice.”

“Bound to a devil….” Boone repeated it softly, to make it more real, examining what she knew about warlocks. But for Cyrus, the Raven Queen wasn’t a devil. She was a neutral entity of some kind. The devil inside of him was something connected to his eye? Boone again regretted not asking him more questions. She _had_ actually learned a few things about warlocks from the Temple, but only that most of them were bound to devils or the Great Elders but some were also bound to archfey. And fey were neutral entities too, for the most part. 

“The power of a warlock depends a great deal on the strength of the devil behind her. Asmodeus is the Devil King, the power you could gain is very significant. Thus, you cannot progress here without making the pact.”

“Aren’t you afraid that if I am bound to Asmodeus, I’ll end up being more powerful than you?”

Talisa smiled. “I am not bound to Asmodeus but something much more powerful. But, if you did have that much potential, I would prefer it. Honestly, it wouldn’t be any fun if you weren’t. The nature of our work requires skill and strength. I expect you to use these tools against me sooner or later. Such is the nature of mortals.”

“So why would you allow it?” Boone peered at Lady Macwell, searching for any hint of a lie.

“Because Asmodeus feels great _potential_ in you. And a _need_ to drive any aspects of the gods back to their planes.” She eyed the shimmering scales on Boone’s cheek. “And I, for my part, relish the idea of watching you try to plot against me.” The lady tittered, clearly not worried. “But that is for after. We can go no further until you agree to a pact with Asmodeus.”

“I don’t suppose you’d settle for the Raven Queen?”

Talisa leaned in, placing her elbows on the table. “The ritual requires a willing participant who can make a willing choice. But do remember, Lady De'Boon, that choices have _consequences.”_

Boone heard that unspoken threat, loud and clear as thunder. So she dropped her gaze a little and nodded. “I see. Is there a lot of blood-letting to being bound to Asmodeus?”

“Less than you might think.” Talisa leaned back and smiled warmly again. “We can prepare the ritual now, if you are amiable?” 

Boone stared down at a fine silken rug and nodded to it. “Yes. Fine. Let’s get it over with.”

So Talisa Macwell oversaw the servants as Boone took a purifying bath (which Boone had to wonder at the point of, since her physical body was in another plane) and changed into robes. Afterwards, the Lady led her to a chamber somewhere below the keep. It was a massive circular cavity, dotted with torches, and off to the left side was a large pool, at least forty feet across, of black fluid. It seemed too oily and thick to be water and it had a faint sulfuric smell. Dissecting the magical water was a five foot path of stone that went out to the center of the pool. At the end was a low, bench-like altar.

Lady Macwell cut each of Boone’s palms with an obsidian knife and placed her bleeding hands down on the altar. “Now, sit back and I will prepare the summoning. You have made your choice, yes?”

Boone perched on the low, wide altar and let her eyes glaze over as she nodded. “Asmodeus or I am tortured forever. I got it.” 

“The benefits will be worth the sacrifice, my dear,” Talisa assured her, sweeping down the bridge to stand before a fiery burner. She threw in something that made the fire spark purple and then began to chant. The shadowy shimmers that always seemed to follow the sorceress began to lengthen, _reaching_ out into the room. 

Boone took a deep breath, trying to steady herself. She didn’t know what to expect but Lady Macwell planned to open some sort of portal and somehow, Boone would be expected to call to Asmodeus? Were there other, more neutral deities she might try and call instead? Boone desperately wracked her brain. The pool of liquid began to fog and smoke, billowing darkness all around the platform. It smelled cold, musty, enveloping the altar in clinging darkness. 

The blood on her hands began to glow. And then something _flashed_ white-hot and bright. Boone vanished from the altar. Talisa stuttered to a stop.

And then a cheery voice boomed inside the chamber: _”So sorry to interrupt, Lady Macwell. Favors being called in, you know. I’ll bring her right back, mostly the same! We’ll see!”_

Boone found herself seated at a massive table in the middle of a colorful, perfect grove. Soft singing was coming from somewhere but it was no one that Boone could see. There didn’t actually seem to be any other people at this long table. It was crammed with all manner of food and drink and pumpkins were sitting in all the chairs save three. The throne-like chair at the head of the table was empty, as was the chair to the right. Boone’s chair, which was to the left, currently had her in it. Her robes were gone and she appeared to be wearing her armor again. She touched the familiar grip of the enchanted sword. _Fuck, now what?_

And then a halfling man the paladin had never expected (wanted) to see again, abruptly walked out behind the piles of food. “Let your eyes adjust! Sip some tea if you must! The Shadowfell is so choked with dust!” And he bowed with a flourish.

Boone stared at him, dumbfounded. “….Grifto?” 

“I thought I recognized you! You were with that band of adventurers who found that tune for me! Your friend, the clever one, got turned into a kobold! How is he, by the way?”

“He’s dead,” Boone answered, grimly.

“Oh, that’s a shame. I guess he should have stayed in that gem with me." He picked up a strawberry and examined it with a jeweler's glass. "Anyway, I’m here to fulfill a favor for a dear friend. You need a pact with a patron and I think I have a better one than Asmodeus. That Lady was trying to bind you to him regardless, you know. She hasn’t been able to read your thoughts, lucky for you. I believe she tried to charm you three times! I don’t think you even noticed. But don’t feel bad for it, senses are dulled in the Shadowfell. So I talked the Queen of the Witches into volunteering.” He dotted his cheek with a handkerchief and then sang out: “Come meet her, I’m ready!” 

“Wait, what? The Queen of _Witches—?”_

And suddenly, on the other side of the table, a woman flashed into existence. Her eyes were pupil-less and green. She wore fine green robes and had a mass of curly red hair. She was very tall and raw power radiated from both her and the giant silver ring attached to her belt. 

“Nicnevin! See! I found you an assistant! A mortal, even! This human should serve you quite stupendously. I’ve worked with her before! It seems Jazirian is hiding inside of her as well, but you can work around him, right?”

Nicnevin, the apparent Queen of Witches, looked at Grifto and then back at Boone, lifting an eyebrow as she openly examined the human. “I can.” 

“Yes, do see to it,” Grifto told her, waving them away as he bustled around the table. “Now, best be off. The Prince of Plenty is coming by today so I must be ready! All these pumpkins won’t carve themselves. Ha, actually, they will.” He tittered. “And Lady Macwell will be eager for you to return. We’ll see each other again.”

Boone started to get up. “Wait, Grifto, I—“

There was a _pop!_

Boone reappeared in the study with the Dreaming Eye, fingers on the black glass. She started, jerking her hand away. The divination magic was residual, it lingered in her fingertips, buzzing and warm. A strange little voice in her ear whispered: _”Oh, now that is very interesting bauble, isn’t it?”_

The little library was empty, thankfully, but Boone took no chances. She crept up to the door to listen, back in the plain robes again. No doubt Lady Macwell would be looking for her? Trying to figure out what had happened. The sorceress definitely wouldn’t be happy about fey getting involved. And Boone was in no mood to try and deal with necromancy. She wasn’t going to be able to fight her way out, so she needed to try to hide.

_”Just make yourself invisible, little one,”_ that odd voice whispered in her head again. 

Boone touched her temple, trying to _will_ her thoughts to that voice. _”….who are you?”_

_”We were already introduced. I am your patron now. You are in a very dangerous place, little mortal. How interesting. But you need to leave. I can help with this. Do you know the spells to blend with the veil?”_

Boone felt a strange, shuddering wave come over her, like a jolt of ice up her spine, and suddenly she _did_ know. _”How do I even get out of here?”_

_“It appears you must go back the way you entered. Through the mirror.”_ It flashed through her mind, a small room somewhere with a fireplace and a tall, dark mirror in one corner, guarded by a folding screen. She knew instinctively that this must be the mirror that Lady Macwell had told Gregor to guard. 

Boone took a deep breath and cast the invisibility spell, cloaking herself entirely. The girl opened the door and slipped into the hallway like a specter. It was dimly lit with oil lamps. She had only been to a few of the rooms in this keep. The bedroom she’d awoken in, the library with the sphere, the study, the drawing room, and a dining room and so it took her a moment to get her bearings. Boone went to the first unfamiliar door, listening carefully before cracking it. It looked to be a tea room but it was empty. No dark mirrors. 

Another room was full of odd items, knick-knacks and discarded books but no people. She hid there for a moment to calm her nerves, refocus and examine a few of the assorted objects. Most were magical in nature. Boone eyed a wide shelf that held a ring, a cloak, a dolphin statue and a leather bag. Maybe it was the sudden engagement with the fey or maybe just impulse but Boone grabbed several items at random, stuffing them in her pockets. She renewed her spell and slipped out into the hallway again. Two servants passed her but Boone simply pressed herself tight against the wall and held her breath until they were gone. 

The fourth door she opened immediately felt familiar. _This is it. This is the one!_ She hurried in, closing the heavy wooden door as quietly as possible so she could dismiss the invisibility and headed across the room. There, in the back, was a folding screen depicting a blue mountain with a dragon flying over it. Boone rounded the corner. 

Gregor was standing there, looking at the mirror. They saw each other at the same time. He stiffened, instantly putting a finger to his mouth as he strode forward and grabbed her shoulder. 

Straightaway, Boone heard Thioni’s voice in her head: _”You have been gone for six hours, my friend. The Lady is in the ritual chamber, furiously scrying for you. She will sense you soon if she hasn’t already. If you are to escape, it has to be now!”_

Gregor looked around the screen to check the door and then hurried over to the mirror and pointed. Boone followed him and saw her body, as well as Cam’s and Dagna’s. Gregor took her hand. _”He will send you through,”_ Thioni’s voice echoed in her head. 

This time Boone grabbed onto Gregor, looking into his eyes. _”What about you?”_

When Cam’s older brother looked at her, she saw the awareness in his gaze, the resignation. He urged her in front of the mirror. This time, it was his voice that answered in her head, steady and quiet: _”You have to go. Save Leopold.”_

Boone grabbed tighter at Gregor’s calloused hand but then she was falling, falling, _falling—_

When the glow in Boone’s eyes faded, Gregor placed his palm flat on the mirror and directed a pinpoint _pulse._ His nose started to bleed and the world was spinning but the webs around Boone broke away. 

The mirror went dark and then, from the tips of his fingers, shattered.  
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	17. Letter from Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sugaan Essena (yeah from Fallen Order): https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oJZfEh3EciU&list=PLQuOKHNudkme-P2XykOQOMLhdu_WjLR7A&index=154  
\-----------------------------  
I wanted to write about some Grifto stuff because the Grifto encounters are usually very poignant for the characters. So this is all based on episodes 165-167, and episode 223 for Kallas' letter and the pre-season 06 start.
> 
> Also Cam and Cyrus reminded me of Han and Lando at the beginning of Return of the Jedi.  
\-----------------------------
> 
> “Cam?” Boone leaned him against the wall. He muttered something incomprehensible. She pushed his hair from his face and then scrambled up and went to Dagna, cutting the bard free. Both times she cut the webs, Boone got an odd feeling, like some kind of connection being _severed._ Like cutting some kind of leash. But they were still in this plane, surrounded by darkness and spider webs. 
> 
> \---------------------------

“Look,” Cam said, “I know we are in a terrible place and were just threatened with disintegration sharks but I also feel like people _will not_ find us here.” 

“Should we take anything from the ship?” Boone asked them as a group. “Anything we might need to equip?”

Cam shrugged. “I usually carry all my shit with me.”

Boone grimaced. “All right, I just wanted to make sure because you never know what we might need for the journey and also _fuck_ that bitch.” Her face contorted and her mouth zipped shut in an expression that clearly indicated: _Oh fuck, did not mean to say that out loud!_

Dagna almost choked as she burst out laughing. 

“You should kick her ass, Boone,” Cyrus told her, grinning. 

“Become the new captain,” Cam immediately agreed, nodding reasonably. “We need a ship, right? You become the new captain, we get a ship.”

“Can any of us actually sail?” Kallas inquired.

“I grew up on an _island!"_ Cam scoffed. “Of course I can sail!” He pointed to Cyrus. “Him too! We can sail. We know how to sail.” He looked back at Cyrus. “Right?”

“I can sail—though never anything this big,” Cyrus agreed. 

A seagull veered above them and a pure, crystalline bolt of light came firing out of the sea. The sound _cracked_ through the air, stunning everyone into silence. The bird managed a pitiful shriek and then fell apart in a fine, glittering dust of ash. 

Cyrus broke the silence first. “Well. So the letter wasn’t lying about the sharks.”

Dagna grimaced. “You know, in this situation, just to be safe, we should probably take everything here at face value.”

“A question, for those of you with magic,” Kallas inquired, raising an interrupting hand. “I don’t suppose any of you can use spells to become friends with animals. Specifically, ones with disintegration rays.”

Cam laughed. “Oh, I wish.”

In his head, Kallas heard an amused little laugh. _”Oh, you seem like an ingenius one!”_ And the tiefling felt something _click_ into place around his chest. His duster now had a trenchcoat over it. Kallas scrambled to pull it back, swiftly looking at the strange, flat device that was now affixed over his shirt. 

Cyrus did a double-take at him. “What the—new style? Where did that come from?”

Kallas’ fingers traced over the flat piece of some sort of grainy metal. “I don't know. This is…new."

Dagna smirked a little. “Got a friend back home that would find that very fashionable.”

“Is that a help or a hindrance to you?” Cam ducked his head, trying to examine the strange flat metal square now attached to the tiefling.

Kallas’ fingers found a small catch and then something _clicked_ and a gloved fist suddenly _fired_ out of the device.

“Whoa!” Cam ducked as the fist sailed over his head and then retracted back into the device. 

“What the hell?” Cyrus stared at him.

Kallas had gone still as a post, arms raised. “Eh…sorry?” The trenchcoat suddenly rebuttoned itself. “Oh, that is….unsettling.”

“That is _amazing!_ Holy shit!” Dagna had her hands thrown up. “I love it!”

“Okay, guys,” Boone waved her hands around to get their attention. “If we don’t need anything else, we should just go. I don’t want to deal with sharks, I don’t want to deal with these pirates, so we need to just go.”

Cam was still staring at Kallas and now he looked at Boone. “So. He has a gigantic fist that comes out of his chest now.”

“Isn’t that awesome!” Dagna was still beaming.

“Are we not gonna talk about that?” Cam wanted to know, going to Kallas and examining the coat. “It doesn’t seem like it’s enchanted. So where the hell is it?”

Boone sighed and passed them, getting down into the little boat. “Who should hold onto this thing?”

“Probably someone strong,” Dagna said, swinging down over the side. 

“Boone?” Cyrus suggested, hopping down from the rope.

“Hey, I’m pretty strong,” Cam interjected, pivoting from his musings about Kallas’ new chest accessory. “I can hold the rope!”

“One of us holds it on the carpet, the other end just tied to the boat?” Boone went on, ignoring the sorcerer. 

“Who is the strongest here?” Dagna opened her hands to the group. “Cause it isn’t me.”

Boone sized up Cam, wrinkling her nose. “Probably you,” she said, scowling, “or me. So one of us should go on the carpet and the other stays in the boat. Which do you want?

“Yeah, all right!” Cam grinned, perking up. “Fuck it, I want to fly the carpet!”

“Flying through disintegration sharks on a magic carpet, towing a boat, to go and find treasure,” Cyrus mused as they got themselves situated. “What could go wrong?”

“That would make a really killer song, just saying,” Dagna told them as Cyrus roped the tiny boat to the magic carpet.

“Have you written any songs about us yet?” Kallas asked. 

“Yeah, you’re a bard!” Cam told her, bracing a knee before hauling himself up onto the carpet and checking the ropes for the warlock. “I wanna be part of your curriculum.” 

Dagna laughed. “Oh yeah, definitely! Check it out, just this very second I wrote an epic bard poem for you.” Dagna suddenly straightened up like she were about to recite something in a classroom. Cam paused, doing a double-take back at her.

_Cam the sorcerer was quite stinky_  
_The layer of his filth was a bit inky! _  
_But when we needed him in a clutch_  
_He’s there to fuck shit up! _  
_We love our sorcerer, even though he’s stinky. _

Everyone burst out laughing. Cam was grinning wide as he adopted a snooty look down his nose at Dagna and said, “I am _inspired_ to remind you that I am _very_ cautious of my stink. Thank you very much. I might be a little shabby but I wash, at least, twice as often as that one,” and here he pointed at Cyrus, “and he is _literally_ dead.”

“All my body parts are intact, thank you!”

“But how are they _feeling?”_

That made them all laugh again (even Cyrus laughed as he flipped him off) and Cam seemed cheered as he wound the rope around his strong arm to help him stay on the carpet. They were nearly to the island when there was a _pop!_ And a scrolled map fell into the boat.

Cyrus and Dagna both leaned away so Boone picked it up and spread out the map, holding the edges as the others leaned in to look at it. “Looks like a map through one of these buildings on the island.”

“It looks like we could follow this stream and just float to where we’re going.” Dagna traced it with her finger. “And probably die in the process, ha. Wait, am I reading this right?”

“Dagna, what are you talking about?” Boone said, sounding exasperated, crossing her arms. 

“Sorry, I’m learning to read maps, apparently,” Dagna laughed.

“You are not very good at it, my dear.”

“I never claimed I was good at it,” Dagna tittered back. 

“Then just let the adults have the map,” Boone sneered.

Dagna looked at the teenager, furrowing her eyebrows at the acid in her tone. “Hey—“

“Boone, no need to be rude,” Cyrus said, raising his hands between them. 

Boone huffed and rolled her eyes.

Dagna sighed and explained to the others: “See, they open up into a stream. If you follow the stream it plops down into another cavern and then you float on down through a _creepy_ skull and plop down the waterfall that—holy shit, there’s a dead guy on a throne down there.” 

“Are you saying we have to go through the sewers?” Cam grimaced.

Dagna shrugged. “We’re going to have to go through pipes, there’s no other way down to the cavern with the ship, according to this map. I mean, I’m not a fan of going through sewage—”

“See, that’s what you get for singing about my stink.” Cam looked back at her from the carpet. “Now we have to go into sewers and we’ll all stink.”

“Hey, we’ll do baths later and we’ll just—it’ll be bonding for later, okay?” 

Cam opened his mouth to speak but then did not, eyes widening just a little. He took a quick breath before his brain seemed to internally redirected: “All right. So.”

That was the moment, Dagna would reflect later. As soon as the words left her lips, she realized what she had said. The implication of fighting, baths, and bonding. What dirty and bonding with _Cam_ would be. In a bath would be. Well. Dagna felt her ears heat up and there was an awkward beat of silence. She hadn’t meant….well. Thinking about it was making her heart beat louder. This was definitely not the time or place—

Thankfully, Kallas spoke about the map and the conversation moved on to the building that sat hunched over these sewage pipes. 

Grifto’s world, contained within this magical bottle, was unpredictable, inconsistent, and unfair, even moreso than the regular world. It had been a changing tide among them. And it had brought out the core of each of them in some ways. It definitely brought their flaws as a group to sharp contrast. The lack of cohesion, the lack of understanding of their weaknesses, had almost permanently killed Kallas but the strength of their compassion had also helped in freeing Hunk, the abused ogre. 

None of them would have thought to actually try and pretend to be _plumbers._ Only Cam would have come up with that and it was so unexpected that it was certain to be brilliant and Dagna jumped onboard. As a bard, that was just her style. Make things up and roll with everything else. Real life often seemed stranger than fiction and in Grifto’s world, the rules could be bent even further. 

This was also when Boone’s attitude shifted. The girl was still a teenager, though she carried a weapon and armor. The paladin stumbled through her spells, hesitated when faced with decisions and seemed bothered by everything. The insecurity was not so surprising from a young adventurer but where Cam told jokes to deflect, Boone just became standoffish. She was only seventeen, after all. But perhaps that Captain Mythail had simply bothered her more than she let on? Dagna did not think she’d done anything to warrant dislike from the paladin. 

Cyrus and Kallas were different. When they entered the basement of house in question, they had both helped her free the poor ogre. Cam had played right along too, stepping in front of her when Dagna found the passage under the fireplace. 

It had honestly gone far better than she could have ever expected. Even the last time the horrible woman of the house lumbered down the basement steps and asked: “Well, well, well, what do we have here!”

And Dagna cried out: “Uh, chaos!” And she cast a spell. The woman flailed, trying to shake it off and then the ogre burst out, barreling into the three people. Dagna and Kallas exchanged a single look and then had run to escape down under the fireplace. 

“I literally cannot believe that mostly worked,” Kallas admitted as they all staggered and scampered down the cramped tunnels. 

“Should we go ahead and actually fix the pipes?” Cyrus asked. Cam, Kallas and Dagna snorted.

“We’re not real plumbers, Cyrus!” Boone snapped.

“I was _joking!”_ Cyrus exclaimed, looking bewildered at the teenager.

Boone sneered and rolled her eyes.

Dagna frowned at Boone. She was surly for a paladin. The bard looked to the warlock. “Cyrus, you aren’t half-bad, you know. You’re all right.”

“That was actually a pretty good joke,” Cam agreed, allowing a half-smirk.

“You take yourself too seriously, Boone,” Cyrus told her.

Boone just huffed and glared. Everyone else was riding the high of their deception mostly working. Only Boone seemed annoyed. Even dodging through the acid pipes, Boone couldn’t seem to help herself. She had to try and mockingly imitate what Cam had done and then dismissed them all, misting through the air and passed them instead. The paladin stalked forward and so she saw the webs first. “…..so this doesn’t look great, guys,” Boone called back, batting at some thick webs.

The reverberations caught her off-guard, watching them cascade like dominoes through the tunnels. Like some sort of warning system. _Oh…._

And then a sound sifted from the dark ahead, a chittering sort of sound. 

Dagna reached her first and seemed to understand immediately. “Does anyone have any fire? Asking for a friend. These webs just pinpointed us.”

“Fire?” Cam perked up. “Oh yeah, I can do fire.”

“Should we probably set—well, I guess it it’d be bad if there was smoke filling the cavern.” Dagna tapped her chin.

Kallas slipped around them all, peering into the dark. “Cam, why don’t you go in front here?”

“All right. Kallas approved! Light that shit up!” Dagna shrugged, grinning.

“I THINK THEY WENT THIS WAY!” A rough voice rang out far back from the tunnels. 

“How did they get down here so quickly?” Cyrus grumbled. 

Cam shuffled to the front. “Ignore them, let’s keep moving.” The sorcerer examined the thickness of the webbing and then held out his hand. “Okay, fuck it, here we go. Spider webs burn.”

“Uh, Cam—don’t you think that’s a little hasty!” Boone raised her eyebrows at him.

“Well, you already hit the webs, Boone, so yeah. Doing it. If you were concerned about that than you probably should have waited before you stuck your hand in there.” While Cam’s flash of fire torched the webs, smoke billowed thick and trapped in the tunnels. That was when the high tumbled to a stop. Right. Grifto’s it might be, but there was still very real danger here. 

The webbing went up in a flash, fire razing a split-second wall through the tunnels and into a larger cavern ahead. But with the flash of fire, came thick, greasy smoke, billowing into the tunnels. Boone swore as she was blinded, Cam and Dagna reeled back as well, trying to turn away.

An ominous screeching echoed in the tunnel almost immediately afterwards and Kallas heard the chittering of many legs clicking against stone. The tiefling stopped, automatically holding out an arm to keep his friends from wandering ahead of him. “This is not a good sound I am hearing.”

And then a _wave_ of bats blasted passed them like a hurricane wind. They all felt fluttery little wings, brushing against them in the darkness and thousands of tiny squeaks. Kallas edged forward and the tunnel opened into another chamber. 

A corpse dropped from the ceiling, webbing seared from it in the flash. Kallas grimaced. “Well. There are definitely some kind of large spiders down here.”

“Disgusting creatures. You’d think he would have eaten that by now.” Cyrus wrinkled his nose at the mummified body.

“I really don’t like spiders,” Cam admitted, wiping at his eyes as the smoke fogged the chamber around them.

“Me neither,” Dagna lamented, touching at the stones in the walls as she coughed.

“They are very hairy,” Cyrus added for some masochistic reason, standing fore with Kallas to keep the other three behind them. 

“I still can’t see anything because of this smoke. Can we please do something about this?” Boone grumbled, eyes screwed shut.

“Ah, that is why you are fine,” Kallas said, looking at Cyrus with a very slight smirk. “You are accustomed to having smoke in your eye.”

The other three snorted.

“Ha-ha.” The warlock narrowed his blue eye at him, reflexively touching his eyepatch. “You are hilarious, Kallas.”

“Legitimately, that was funny,” Boone answered. “But seriously, how can we fix this?”

“I do not have magic,” Kallas reminded her. “Do you have Lesser Restoration?” 

Boone did not answer, which was answer enough.

“Guess what we don’t have,” Dagna singsonged and then sighed heavily.

“There are a lot of things we don’t have,” Cyrus reminded them all, tone loud and flat. 

“Fact,” Cam told them, right hand on the wall as he tried to figure out where the horrible chittering was coming from? Northeastly from his position? “Everyone else can _hear_ that, right? It’s not just me?”

Kallas lightly tapped Boone’s arm and then Cam’s shoulder. “Stay with my voice. There is definitely something in here with us.”

“I think I’m almost good,” Cam muttered, exposing his eyes to the dark and staring hard to make them stay open. No use, his vision was still a blur.

Cyrus approached Dagna and gently took the bard’s hand to lead her. "It is just me," he warned her quietly. Dagna wiped at her streaming eyes as she felt his presence next to her. It was easy to forget how broad the warlock knight was. Dagna always did until he was right next to her. The painter took the bard’s hand as if he were afraid it might fall off but he tucked Dagna close to him, trying to shield her from the smoke and possible arachnidan threats. He stepped ahead of her into the gloom, keeping a somehow perfectly _respectful_ hold on her hand. “I think I am hearing that clicking again? Dagna, stay behind--”

Dagna felt the warlock _jolt_ as something struck him and then he was _ripped_ away. “Cyrus!” Dagna yelled it, casting around blindly in the smoke. “Something just grabbed Cyrus!”

They all heard a _whump_ and the warlock cried out. 

Cam took off towards the sounds of a human-sized caster struggling against the stonework and tried _not_ to see the blur of a huge, awful spider. “Ohfuck—yep! GIANT SPIDERS!” He yelled it in the gloom for the others and then swept to the left.

But by the time he shouted, it was too late. The shadow crept up and Kallas saw a glint off the eyes behind Boone. He whirled around, right as the acid sprayed over them. 

Cyrus flipped himself away from the tunnel wall, rolling to scramble out of the thick webs. He ducked crosswise, blundering into a side half-wall instead of Cam’s sword. “You can see this thing, yes! I’m right here!” 

“Uh, am I pointed in the right direction?” Cam dodged in to strike. "I promise I can see much better now!"

“Dammit! “ Cyrus ducked under the blade, dodging around one of the clicking legs as it swiped for him. “Easy, Cam! I’m right here!” And then he was swallowed by the smoke, dodging another jab from a spear-like leg.

Down the tunnels, Kallas held his arm to himself, acid eating through his gear as it worked for his flesh. “Boone! It’s directly behind you!” 

Boone tried to breathe, tried to think but it was all happening so fast and her brain felt like it was stuck in mud. _I need to….need to strike. I need to act….I…._

“Cyrus!” Cam shouted, struggling to see the other human in the smoke and darkness, even as his sight cleared. If he could find the man and grab him somehow—

“Fuck him up, Boone!” They heard Dagna sing out. 

Boone took a breath. Right. She nodded to herself. Yes. _Fuck him up._ And she flickered her greatsword and charged. When she struck, there was a _boom_ that shook the stone and a thunderous blast of sound hit the beast.

The deathlock rolled away and up into the tunnel walkway, whirling his halberd around. Cam tried to scramble back but then the both of them felt burning black acid. Cyrus yelled, whirling back and leaping to the side as his gear _hissed._ He tore his eyepatch off, revealing his cursed gaze. He saw Cam attempt to dodge in and _inflict_ but he slipped on the wet stone and then a leg whacked at him: “Oh fuck fuck fuck!”

Kallas got blasted again by the other spider. The tiefling took the acid and sagged to the floor like a sack of sand. Dagna cried out, _reaching_ with her magic to take the damage, to mend and rework it, to redirect it, to _reform_ the flesh—

The first spider screeched and _stabbed—_

Cam took the first strike, struggling to stay coherent, flinging out his hand to cast _Shield._ It went up in an airy wall of light and stars—and then failed immediately when the sorcerer was hit again. His body was _wrenched_ back, _smashing_ into the sidewall and seizing up—

“Ohshit, CAM IS DOWN!” Cyrus roared it into the dark tunnels, knowing the others couldn’t see them through the smoke and gloom. _I have no way to help him. Please hear me! I have no way to help!_

Boone choked, about to attack and then distracted, _hesitating_ but with what? The paladin tried to look inward, tried to pinpoint what it was, exactly. _I have to do something—whatdoIdo?!_ There was a still a gargantuan spider in front of her, in front of Kallas and Dagna but Cam—!

Kallas whirled around. “Boone! You are a paladin! Use your spells! I will go to Cam!” He hadn’t been able to hit the damn thing anyway. Its spider-hide was armored. Figures. He went full-sprint towards the sounds of Cyrus yelling and burst out of the gloom. His sharp tiefling eyes saw the warlock without the eyepatch and then spotted the sorcerer. Kallas went skidding into Cam’s prone form, already digging for his potion. “Cam!?” 

He grabbed him, jerked him up, leaning over the human to protect him as he uncorked the bottle with a _pop!_ Dagna had given them all a potion, excellent foresight on her part. And a good way of ingratiating herself with her new traveling companions, Kallas could also say. Not that he would complain, Dagna was patient and kind-hearted but also clever enough to know when to buy expensive potions and give them away. Kallas supported Cam’s head and pressed the bottle to his lips. There was a blackening stab wound in the human’s chest. It had ripped right into the plate.

The potion was thick and Cam made a pitiful gurgling noise. Kallas clamped his palm over Cam’s mouth to make him swallow. He watched the wound hiss and shrink as the flesh reformed, the wounds older, healed. They would have to repair the sorcerer’s gear later.

Cam shuddered in his grip, eyes glazed and the disheveled human automatically tried to grip his sword. “Am I alive?” 

“Yes, my friend.” Kallas grabbed Cam’s weapon from the floor and pressed the hilt into his fingers. “Can you stand?”

And behind them, in the gloom, among the shadows and webs and fading smoke, there was a blinding _flash_ of radiant light. The spider attacking Boone and Dagna gave a wretched howling screech and the tunnel was flooded with a rotten stench.

The remaining spider screamed and acid sprayed, Kallas leapt up to protect Cam but it coated both of them with burning acid once again. As quickly as he'd come back around, Cam slipped away again. Kallas swore right before everything went dark. 

“Mother_fuck!”_ Dagna came racing towards them, firing with her crossbow and then winding up with her right hand, first two fingers straight as arrows as she honed in on Cam with her magic. The acid was _burning._ She could smell the sizzling flesh as Cam’s body gave another _jolt._ The sorcerer swore softly and waved a hand to show he was coherent (sort of). He and Kallas were covered in acid, the poor guys. "Could you guys try not to die, please!"

Boone appeared like a wraith from the smoke, going to the men. She grabbed onto Kallas, _imbuing_ him with holy light, reviving energy. “I’m doing this too much, buddy!” She told him, glaring.

Kallas sputtered back into awareness. His amber eyes flickered, guarded and unreadable, at the paladin for a moment. “Then by all means, I will gladly take Dagna with me next time.” And then he was up in one fluid motion, grabbing his crossbow, shifting his feet to brace, aim and then smoothly pulled the trigger. He stalked away from Boone.

And then Cyrus swept up, rooting himself like a tree and _slamming_ the halberd up, cracking the armored hide, splitting up into the arachnid, ripping through its head. They all watched the warcaster’s eye absorb the energy from the spider.

“Whoa,” Dagna said, in the silence that followed, “that’s a pretty cool trick. Have I seen you do that before? That’s awesome. It heals you or something?”

“It’s real creepish,” Cam managed. He was trying to stretch out his rigid muscles, stiffly flopping over so he could get on his knees. “Fuck. Everything hurts.” 

Cyrus sunk down against the sidewall for a moment, nodding as he caught his breath. He let his halberd clink onto the stone next to him. The immediate aftermath of fighting was always so intense. “Agreed. Fucking spiders.”

Dagna helped Cam sit up against the wall. The sorcerer snorted softly. “Hey, now. We are not here to fuck spiders.” 

“They were definitely fucking us there for a minute,” Boone said, sighing heavily. 

“I think they went this way!” The horrible woman and her sons were apparently following them. 

Cyrus groaned. “Oh, shit.”

“Are you kidding me! Fuck _off!”_ Dagna whirled away from Cam and yelled down the dark tunnels.

“You fuck off! You’re supposed to fix the pipes! They’re back there!”

“Well, you’re supposed to be upstairs! Now we’re _both_ disappointed!” Dagna jeered back.

“WHEN I GET THROUGH THESE PIPES I WILL HAVE WORDS WITH YOU, YOUNG LADY!”

Dagna drew herself up to her full height. “BRING IT, BITCH.”

Cam was sniggering as he steadied himself against the wall. “Let’s keep moving. Actually, let’s get the hell outta here. Hopefully those idiots will get eaten by spiders.”

The next room had a few bodies wrapped up in webs and Cyrus made Kallas, Boone and Cam all snort when he pointedly refused the mundane dagger that Cam found on one of the bodies. The next room had an acid pool and some armor dangling over a tiny island in the center. Boone pointed to it, examining it from her vantage on the stone. 

“Hey,” Dagna nudged. “We could fly up there? Check it out?”

Boone looked down at the bard and suddenly felt a bit guilty about her harsh words earlier. Maybe it was just how easily the others had all taken to the bard? Whereas Boone found herself constantly struggling to get along with the guys. Dagna was very pretty and had a voice like a bird. She was quick to jump into action too. Boone tended to hang back. (She’d never had experience fighting in groups before all this shit had happened, after all.) But….Dagna hadn’t reacted as Boone had expected. The bard was a few years older than her and instead of getting angry, Dagna just…continued trying to help. 

_Even after I was being shitty about the map. She still helped me with the spider._

Even as Boone had struggled to think, tried to do something besides just wave her sword around. They were going to fucking die if she didn’t. And then, of all people, Kallas had reminded her. _Use your spells!_ Reflexively, had it made her angry that the rogue tiefling with no arcane anything had had to remind her? Perhaps.

On the road from Avargard to Bryce’s Landing, Boone had resisted using any of her paladin abilities. The girl had no idea if there was any kind of search being conducted for her (either from Jildos or her own House) and definitely hadn’t wanted to be recognized. They would be looking for a paladin. So when Boone joined up with a caravan to skirt the northern Rainbow Wastes, heading west, she claimed only to be proficient with a sword. 

Boone touched at her gear, where it hid the scar at her throat. Maybe she had been a little wary too. Using her divine abilities after somehow surviving decapitation was a paralyzing thought. What if she died a second time? Would she be revived again? How _had_ she survived? Would Jazirian still answer? 

Well, now she had her answer. There was a giant dead spider in the other room to prove it. And Dagna had helped her accomplish it. _What happened in Jildos made me suspicious….and scared. When Cyrus yelled that Cam was down, I almost abandoned them, a bard and the rogue. They might have died if I had._ Boone had been struck with indecision and then Kallas had stepped in and prevented it with his usual forethought. Maybe there was more to the tiefling than she’d originally suspected. 

Boone gave Dagna a grateful smile. “I like your jam. Let’s go.”

So Dagna unfurled the carpet and hopped on, patting the space next to her. Boone clambered on and the two went zooming over the pool of acid. It bubbled and boiled below, shooting up hissing geysers of burning acid. But Dagna showed no fear, whooping as she and the carpet moved as one, like a crossbow bolt, dodging and weaving like a rabbit. 

They circled the leather armor once they reached the tiny island.

“Okay, uh, this stuff isn’t evil right?” Boone held out a warding hand to the gear just in case. 

“Oh, there’s a note,” Dagna exclaimed, grabbing Boone’s arm and pointing. The carpet drifted closer.

Boone reached out and snatched the paper. _“A gift for a job well done,”_ she read and then examined the sheet, turning it over and saw more: _“You never fixed the pipes though.”_

Dagna furrowed her eyebrows and sighed heavily. “Can we fix it later?”

In response, the note shook in Boone’s hand. The paper quivered and then jumped up from her glove, folding itself into a paper bird and darting away.

“What is happening over there!” Kallas called to them from the walkway.

“Are you all right!” Cyrus waved his halberd. “You aren’t dead, yes!”

“They’re not _you,”_ Cam said, snickering.

Dagna waved back to them and called: “No, we’re good! We’ll meet you over there!” 

“Lookit them, walking,” Boone said, smiling a little as the men continued on foot.

“They’re doing such a good job,” Dagna agreed, mock-proudly grinning, and held up the chest piece as they got close. “Magical leather armor! Kallas, this would look fantastic on you, buddy!”

While Kallas unbuckled and opened the piece to shift his belt and weapons (except for the strange trenchcoat, which suddenly loosened and slid off of him like a paralyzed octopus), Cyrus looked a short way down the hall. “There’s a pit with a chain here and then the tunnel keeps going. Should we check out the end first?”

Cam went to Kallas to help him tighten the straps on his shoulders and checked over the seals for him. And then had to fight with the trenchcoat when it whipped up and was clearly intent on wrestling itself back onto Kallas.

“Just let it!” The tiefling advised, holding his arms out. “I don’t know that it won’t hit you if you try to stop it.” The coat slithered over his arms and rebuttoned itself. “That is still very unsettling.”

“That is so weird,” Cam said, giving it a leery eye.

They followed behind the other three as they rounded the corner and saw a massive, ornate carving of a face.

“Oh, nose goes,” Dagna said, pressing her finger to her nose when they realize the ornate carving had an actual tunnel going through the mouth. “Nope.”

Boone shifted. “Okay, Dagna is the little one but—does anyone else feel like going in there?”

Certainly, none of them trusted it. But Cyrus was first to break the silence. “I will do it.” 

“You definitely got this,” Boone said, backing up a few steps.

“Don’t die!” Dagna commanded.

“I’ll avenge you!” Boone added.

But all Cyrus saw was a dark tunnel. He went inside, crawled around in a straight line for a minute and then emerged from the mouth again. The others all stared at him with baited breath. 

“You all right?” Dagna ventured.

Cyrus suddenly jolted. “Wait, wait a second.” He threw off his backpack, scrambling through it with a sudden ferocity that made them all pause. 

“Cyrus, what are you doing?” Boone asked, watching the warlock upend his bag.

“I can’t find the…” Cyrus searched the pockets again. “It’s…gone. It’s—“

“What’d you lose? I mean, besides your life. Did you die again?”

“Cam.” Dagna raised her eyebrows at him.

“No, I had a necklace here. A keepsake. It’s gone. It’s just vanished.”

“Did you drop it?” Dagna frowned then.

“When’d you see it last?” Cam inquired.

“A couple days ago. It was in my pack.”

“You’re probably just mistaken, Cyrus,” Boone told him. “It has to be there.”

“It clearly _isn’t!”_ Cyrus gestured to his tossed bag. “That necklace is all I have left of her!"

“Who?” Dagna inquired.

“My mother!” Cyrus suddenly pulled back, realizing how his voice had risen to a thundering shout. He grimaced as he looked away from them all, feeling sharply raw, _exposed._ “I’m sorry,” he said, quiet and stiff. The warlock took a deep breath to compose himself. 

“Cyrus, we’ve been through a lot today,” Boone told him. “Maybe it’s fallen down into a seam or something. We can check once we’re back in the day light. Down in these tunnels, we can’t see anything.”

“Perhaps, you dropped it back by the spiders somewhere,” Kallas suggested. “We can look on the way back.”

“We’ll find it. We’ll comb through that pack and we can check our stuff too, just to make sure,” Dagna told him, patting him on the arm. She knelt to help him repack his bag. 

Kallas led them back to the hole in the floor with the chain leading down into the dark, which had Dagna tapping her nose again.

“Does your nose itch, Dagna?” Cyrus asked her. 

“Nose Goes rule? You don’t know Nose Goes? Okay, we might have to talk about that later.” She was pulling out a torch and giving it to her mage hand. “Oh shit, lookit those spikes down there. Don’t want none of that. Don’t fall down here.”

“What do you mean don’t fall!” Boone huffed.

Dagna resisted grinding her teeth and, instead, yanked on Boone’s arm and pointed down at the very obvious torch. “Spikes. Will suck ass if you fall on them.” 

The teenager sheepishly shrugged. “Right, right, I see. Sorry. Yeah, listen to Dagna. Don’t fall in.”

“Look, I was planning to.” Cam gestured out at the pit. “But now, foiled again. Disappointed, every time.” 

Kallas peered down the hole. “So, who is going first?”

Cyrus looked right at him. So did everyone else. “You. Because you’re the one who asked.”

The tiefling lifted his chin, dusting imaginary dirt from his new gear. “Well, I do need to test this new armor.” So, agile and nimble, Kallas grabbed the chain, tested it and then began to climb down.

“I’ll follow him, in case there’s spiders or something,” Boone said, gripping onto the chain and beginning to lower herself, hand over hand. The others waited anxiously around the hole.

They suddenly heard a voice: _“Whoopsies!”_

Then the chain snapped. 

Dagna and Cyrus both dove for it, fumbling for the cascading metal and Dagna finally latched in and gave a mighty _heave._ Somehow she held on. Cam had been ready to spring, to latch onto her but then Cyrus was suddenly pulling out the goat statuette. He placed it down and it grew into a live goat in just a few seconds. Cyrus took one of the horns and rammed it into one of the large eyes of the chain. 

Dagna released the chain and when it didn’t collapse, she threw her hands up. “Short but strong! Holy shit!”

“Godsbefucking_damned,_ woman,” Cam told her, laughing as Kallas and Boone scampered off the chain, out of the way of the spikes.

The goat stood before them, seeming to examine all of them as it chewed on its grass. It bleated and its one wonky eye rolled back. The head was a little off-tilt as well, now that it was missing one horn.

“That’s a good goat,” Cam told it. 

“Yes, you are a good goat!” Dagna agreed, petting it on the head.

Cyrus went down last, holding the goat around its middle as he slid down the chain. “You are a good goat,” he told it absently. “I should create some kind of sling for you, I think, yes?”

Then they reached the huge skull, winding through the dark, dank path that began in the mouth. Behind them, their three tails were bickering around the horn sword.

“A thirty foot drop onto spikes should help get rid of them, right?” Cyrus said. “They don’t seem very bright.”

“Yeah, I don’t think we have much to fear from them. This cave will definitely kill us but probably not them.” Dagna sighed.

“Though now we cannot go back up the chain,” Kallas grimaced.

“Eh, we’ll burn that bridge when we get to it,” Dagna waved a hand.

They found a bridge barely fifty paces later, winding up through the skull-armored tunnel to a grotto with a massive waterfall. It wasn’t even a proper bridge, but a decrepit log, straddling the banks of the roaring water.

Kallas peered around the old log. “We should probably only go one at a time on this.”

“As it were, nose goes,” Cyrus clucked and smooshed his gloved finger into the perfect tip of his nose.

Dagna burst out laughing. “Good job, Cyrus! Caught on fast!”

“Can we just use the carpet?” Cam proposed.

“Oh yes, I take it back. I like that idea better,” Cyrus amended. The warlock kept hold of the little goat when they crossed on the magic carpet but on the other side, he walked over to Dagna and set the goat next to her. “We should knock the log off so those idiots can’t follow us.”

“Oh, good call,” Cam agreed and he stepped forward to help.

So he and Cam splashed down into the shallows and together, they heaved up on their end. Cyrus nearly lost his footing in the fast-moving water but Cam braced him and the two tossed it over the edge.

Strange, in a way, that a Sabal and a Macwell were in the same place, working together, but not in a war or for Jildos. If both had stayed in their places, they might even have met, but likely would never have worked together directly. Cam would have been Grand Steward, someone who _planned_ battles, who led battles. Cyrus might have been a warlock knight, a warmage, someone who fought the battles. Cyrus had always wondered, if he showed his valor for Jildos, if he could have restored his family name. _That_ would surely earn the respect of his father and brothers. He shook himself, there was no chance of that now. He wondered how Cam had walked away from all that power. That would be difficult for _anyone_ to pass up, let alone the cocky spellsword who’d been groomed for it for most of his life. 

The next room had a massive set of pipes, like a large organ and a proportionate skeleton, ominous and aged. There were bats fluttering above them, hundreds of them. Dagna would regret not taking the carpet herself to get the bat with the note tied to it. Kallas had done it. And of course, this was the one thing that Dagna could have easily accomplished. She could read music, play the harpsichord and woodwinds, sing and perform and dance. 

But as soon as Kallas grabbed the bat and the musical score leeched into his skin like a tattoo and they were all locked in place…

_Oh shit._

And Kallas tried, he really did. But he wasn’t familiar with the instrument and while Dagna was able to, at least, interpret the score for him, he couldn’t be expected to play it perfectly. And after the first mistake and Dagna went plummeting through the floor, it only became more difficult. She’d slipped right through his fingers when Kallas had sprinted over to snatch her.

They heard no sound after she vanished through the floor. Boone yelled for her but there was no response. Kallas had to refocus himself and lift his hand to play again.

This time, it was Cam who fell through the floor. Kallas cringed and swore.

“You failed twice, I know, but keep going, Kallas!” Cyrus called to him. “Third time is the charm, yes?”

Kallas was looking more and more unconvinced. And even Cyrus’ silent prayer went unanswered as the tiefling fumbled again and Cyrus vanished.

“Kallas! What is _wrong_ with you!” Boone screamed angrily, struggling against the invisible bindings.

The tiefling didn’t look at her, staring down at the keyboard. His heart was racing. _I just killed everyone._

And then Boone seemed to reconsider her harsh words. _Oh shit. Dammit._ After all, Kallas had had no choice. “I…I mean, you have to keep trying! Keep trying, Kallas!”

But only Dagna knew where the notes were and she was gone. The fumbling again was like breaking glass in a church, jarring and off-tune. Boone fell, shouting: “JUST JUMP IN WITH US!”

Kallas stared at the glowing eyes of the skeleton, looming over the piano. _I just killed all of them._ He studied the musical notes on his hand, trying to _will_ his brain to comprehend it. He’d studied all kinds of things, seen all manner of strangeness and that musical notes were going to be his undoing was _infuriating._

But he lifted his hand to try again. It was all he could do. 

And that was the last thing he remembered.

When Dagna broke the surface of the water, she gasped for breath.

“Friend? Friend!”

_That voice!_ It was the ogre! The ogre! “Oh my god, all the gods, oh fuck, yes! Yes! Friend! Oh god, friend!” Dagna squeezed the ogre’s arm like a leech as she was dumped into a tiny boat. Cam was dumped in next to her. They helped each other sit up as the ogre dove back and then brought up Boone and Cyrus and the little goat, which struggled madly until dumped into the hull. 

But there was no Kallas. The ogre even dove down again but he found nothing. They could see nothing above them, there was no platform with holes where stones had been. The ceiling appeared to be solid stone again. 

“Kallas!” Dagna yelled it out, heard it echo in the cavern. But there was no response.

“He’s a detective, he figures things out all the time. I’m sure he’s fine,” Boone said.

“Yep, I bet he nailed it on the fifth try,” Cam said, frowning and not feeling very hopeful. _First Brenna, now Kallas. Great._

Cyrus frowned up at the ceiling as well.

“Boat!” The ogre told them, putting a paper hat on his head. “Look! Boat!” 

The pirate ship looked ragged, probably haunted but for the moment, Cam ignored it. He turned to the ogre with his hand outstretched. “Friend? Friend.”

“Friend!” The ogre declared and opened his arms happily. 

Cam hesitated for just a moment and then tried to one-arm the ogre—but the creature grabbed him in a bear hug and ruffled Cam’s long hair. The sorcerer endured that (“Yep, this is great. I love it so much.") before he managed to extract himself and pointed to his own chest. “Cam,” he told the ogre and then pointed at him.

The ogre looked at his finger, then at Cam and then slowly pointed to himself. “Hunk!”

“Hunk?” Cam repeated and somehow quelled the totally misplaced urge to laugh. “Hunk. I see why they call you that.”

The three horrible people fell into the pool. Dagna waved to the ogre urgently. “C’mon, Hunk!”

“You aren’t plumbers!” The old woman howled at them, shaking her fist. 

“What was your first clue!” Cyrus shouted back.

“We can be plumbers _and_ adventurers, thank you very much!” Cam yelled.

“Look at the Mario brothers,” Cyrus added, and then put his hand in the water to send an electric shock _zapping_ through the pool.

Boone frowned, looking sidelong at him. “Who?” 

They bumped into the pirate ship and Dagna hopped to scamper up the netting. “C’mon, Hunk!”

That was when the ogre paused. “Hunk? Hunk go,” he pointed to where the people were swimming towards them like little dogs in a massive bath. “Go stop family?”

“No, they’re mean to you! They'll try to trick you!” Dagna cried out. 

“Hunk,” Cam spoke up, waving a hand in front of the ogre to get his attention before the sorcerer pointed to himself again. “New family?” And then he pointed at horrible people in the water. “Do you want them? No, right? But us?” And he pointed to himself again. “New family.”

Hunk stared at him for a long moment. “Hunk….new family?”

“Yeah, Hunk. See….sometimes the family you’re given? Not the best option.”

Cyrus clapped the ogre on his beefy arm. “Welcome to our family.”

The ogre began to weep as he went to the netting to start hauling it up. “New Hunk family!” He sobbed happily.

Boone rolled her eyes and followed Dagna when the bard, now sure of Hunk’s safety, went belowdecks to find the Captain’s quarters.

“Aramel’s Cabin,” Boone quietly read the words painted in an arch over the trap door. “I wonder who Aramel was?”

Dagna and Cyrus knelt by the trapdoor but neither saw any pins, wires or poisons, so Cam walked up and bashed the door in with his boot. The hinges snapped off and the chunk of wood went clattering below into a golden-lit hold.

That was when Kallas saw them. The darkness suddenly pierced and he saw Cam duck down into the hold. _What happened? Where am I?_

Kallas watched Dagna and Boone search the treasure while Cam and Cyrus filled their pockets. They seemed much bigger than usual. Or perhaps Kallas was smaller? He wasn’t entirely certain until Dagna held up the music box triumphantly and wound it.

And then suddenly, like he were being ushered out of the shadows, Kallas found himself moving into the light and realized: _Oh. Yes. I am very small somehow?_

“Oh, I could not remember that tune for the life of me!” Grifto cried. “Though it seems to have had consequences.” Grifto pulled the gem from his hat. 

That was when Boone pointed. “He’s in the gem!”

_I’m in the gem?_ Kallas peered around. Oh yes, he was in a crystalline room. And there was a large hand wrapped around it. 

“Can you bring him back? What will he be?” Cam asked warily. Kallas could barely hear Cam’s voice, muffled from the gem. 

“We want him the way he was,” Boone added.

“Oh, I can’t do that! But I can put him in a vessel. So, the gold, the treasure, or your friend?”

“But he’ll either be something or nothing?” Cam wanted to know, already dumping out the gold he’d taken.

“Oh, he won’t be nothing! He could keep me company!” Grifto fondly looked into the gem with his giant face. “He could always chat with me! Tea parties are always good with another person!”

Kallas took a step back from the halfling’s face, inside the gem.

“I feel like he would hate that,” Boone said, snorting.

“So Kallas then?” Cyrus sighed and began emptying out the gold they’d taken. 

Cam shot a glare at warlock. “Yes, we want Kallas. And the mystery treasure box. Fuck the gold.”

The Prince of Mischief lowered the gem and put it between a set of giant-looking teeth. The skeleton warped and suddenly Kallas felt like he were shrinking and yet, the air felt different too. Less still. More open. And he was suddenly opening his eyes again. His body felt _weird._

“Kallas?” Boone asked tentatively.

He staggered, suddenly disoriented. “What happened—what, where am I?”

_”Kallas?”_ Cyrus gaped. 

“So he’s a kobold now?” Cam lifted his eyebrows.

“Oh, you are so cute!” Dagna declared. 

Boone barked out a laugh. “But he is alive? Great. Better him than me. Holy shit.” 

Kallas seemed to ignore her, sitting up. He was very pale, his albino tiefling skin appeared to have followed him and he was now a white kobold. The rogue tried to stagger up again and his wings unfurled awkwardly. 

Dagna knelt beside him to steady him. “We’ll, here…..do you want me to take your pack for now?”

Kallas shook his little kobold head. “I…I will manage. Allow me a moment.”

Cyrus, Cam and Boone all circled him, observing and examining their friend in his new body.

“Well, with that, I bid you adieu!” Grifto bowed, the enormous feather poking at Cyrus.

Dagna stood to face the trickster. “Wait! Grifto, what will happen to Hunk?” 

Grifto paused, peering at the human woman for a long moment. “He is a captain now, and his family—oh. Oh. I see.”

“His family was a piece of shit,” Cyrus informed the god, bluntly.

“We _did_ kinda tell him that he was one of us now,” Cam threw in. 

That made Grifto smile an odd, curious smile. “If he desires, he can go with you.” He looked over the five of them, seeming intrigued by their request. 

“Thank you, Grifto.” Dagna made sure to stay polite, bowing to him.

“You’re the best,” Cyrus echoed.

Cam’s expression couldn’t seem to help but twist but Dagna suddenly pointed severely at him behind Grifto’s back and Cam wisely kept his silence. 

Boone raised a hand—

—and slashed her enchanted sword through the webs on Cam’s neck and feet. Her friends first, she could try and figure out Grifto later. When the sorcerer’s boots hit the floor, he jolted, shuddering. Boone cut his wrists free and stepped into him, lowering the human to the floor. 

“Cam?” Boone leaned him against the wall. He muttered something incomprehensible. She pushed his hair from his face and then scrambled up and went to Dagna, cutting the bard free. Both times she cut the webs, Boone got an odd feeling, like some kind of connection being _severed._ Like cutting some kind of leash. But they were still in this plane, surrounded by darkness and spider webs. 

Boone pulled her two friends next to each other, pulling their packs off to create a little wall around the three of them. They both felt feverish, at first, then went cold. Cam opened his eyes first, shuddering through a chill. 

“Cam?” Boone shifted to him, reaching out to touch his shoulder.

The sorcerer jumped. “Boone? Boone!” Cam lurched forward, grabbing her arms. “Are you all right? What happened?”

Dagna groaned softly as she rolled her neck. “What the fuck happened?” The bard touched her throbbing skull as she looked up and stopped cold. “Where the _fuck_ are we?”

“Okay, weird story,” Boone began and then suddenly remembered the feather in her pocket. She reached for it immediately but there was no feather. In her pocket there was, instead, a yellow paper bird. Boone froze, staring at it as she drew it from her pocket. _The bird Cyrus gave me…_

She automatically checked her other pocket but there was no feather in that one either, just a folded piece of parchment. That surprised her, so the paladin opened it and began to read. Her face fell, stricken.

“What?” Dagna asked wearily.

“……it’s…..it’s from Kallas.”

_“What!”_ Dagna and Cam both exclaimed.

Boone took a deep breath before she read:

_To my friends: Boone, Dagna, Cam, Cyrus and Brenna_

_I have a feeling that my deal with Asmodeus is going to come up soon. Which means that I will probably not survive the battle at Jildos. I do not know what he will ask of me but I know that I could not betray any of you. Even to save myself from an eternity of torment in the Nine Hells. _

_And for that, I would like to thank you. _

_Thank you for being my friends. For showing me that not everyone will judge me for being a tiefling. For giving me the chance to do something good in the world. And to have fun while doing so. _

_I do have one regret though. I promised that I would save Brenna from whatever monster stole her soul. But it looks like I won’t be able to keep that promise. So I ask of you, my friends, to keep that promise for me. And save Brenna from whatever nightmare she is trapped in._

_Your friend_  
_Kallastin Sallerov_

_P.S. Please let my family know what happened. _  
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	18. Concerning Irulan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Combat violin y'all. Roundtable Rival: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jvipPYFebWc&list=PLQuOKHNudkme-P2XykOQOMLhdu_WjLR7A&index=165&t=0s
> 
> \-------------------  
Also, lol, hi Nova from Roll Like a Girl (Sean had her show up in one episode of season 03, so now it is canon for me.)  
Some of this is based around the episode concerning the death of Caldious. I believe it was episode 57 (S02).  
\-------------------
> 
> For nerds out there:  
Sanctus is latin for spirit/holy  
Martelé means _hammering_ in reference to bow techniques used with string instruments  
Reference: https://play.google.com/store/books/details?id=lRMQAAAAYAAJ&rdid=book-lRMQAAAAYAAJ&rdot=1  
\-------------------
> 
> “Right. Are you going to do _Speak with Dead?”_
> 
> Zephira nodded, already digging in her pack for incense and lighting it with a pinch of her fingers before sticking it into the sand. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes. “Caldious Argonaut.” She reached out and touched his shoulder.  
\---------------------------

Cyrus didn’t have darkvision, so he stayed in the lead with the paper bird and Velicia stayed behind him, watching his back. The zombie was, presumably, a thousand miles away. So he and the tiefling woman ventured through the murky forest alone, heading north.

“I notice that you use some fairly advanced magic,” Cyrus told her, glancing over his shoulder at her.

“Do I?” Velicia asked. “I must have known the spells before but I don’t remember much else about them.”

_”Forcecage,_ in particular, was known by the more advanced warlocks that I trained among. Is your magic inbound like a sorcerer?”

“No, I don’t think so. Though, I suppose I cannot say for certain,” Velicia mused. “I must have learned it somewhere.”

Cyrus automatically touched Kallas’ rapier. “It’s not your sword, right?”

Velicia looked intrigued and so she drew the one at her side. “I do not think so.” She offered it out to him.

Cyrus took the hilt. He felt a sweep of buzzing warmth through his arm and then—

—the human looked out the window and breathed in crisp, cold air.

The Warmage College founded by the eccentric researcher, Markus Landor, was situated high up in a majestic set of jagged peaks. Snow blanketed the ground most of the year up here. But Caldious had never really minded the cold. He had come to the school as a young boy and soaked up all there was to learn like a sponge. Back then, the towering cliffs and harsh stone had excited and impressed him and here, more than twenty years later, it still did. The dawn washed the whole mountain in pinks and purples and the snow glittered.

But he could not be late. Best to go down to the dining hall now. A tankard of hot mulled cider would do him well during his first class of the day. He had volunteered to teach an advanced set of students some of the more complex paired forms of warmage magics (a blanket concept covering a blend of the sorcery, warlock, cleric and wizard-focused programs of magic and study). His half-elf apprentice, Morgan, was in this class, as well as a handful of others. She was a ridiculously talented mage and fighter. They would likely be sent together the next time he were called upon to fight. 

The man touched the grip of his rapier as he reluctantly turned from the window and headed down a set of spiraling stairs to a large hall. Instructors were already up and about, as were several of their older students. Some were breakfasting in the dining hall, including Morgan. Charismatic and pretty, the half-elf was smiling as she chatted with her group of friends. Caldious lifted a hand to her as he moved through the echoing hall.

Hot cider acquired, he headed to his practice room, a large gymnasium-like room with a lot of space for his students to move around and not hit each other with errant spellwork. 

Two of his students were already there. 

One was a male human called Aatrin, who was musically enamored and was incorporating his impressive fiddle abilities into his fighting. He was around twenty-four or so, making him one of the eldest among his advanced students, and he was apprenticed to one of the sorcery instructors. He would soon join the College itself as an assistant to the bards that were faculty to the wizard-focused program. Morgan talked about this handsome human sometimes. He was playing crisp and fast, pulsing waves of energy across the room at the second student, a female tiefling, who was zipping and dodging across the mats. 

Her name was Zephira. She had come from a rougher edge of the world, as many tieflings did, and thought herself to be about twenty. Her skin was dark grey, almost soot and her eyes were night-black. She had shown to be particularly adept with warlock magic and was pacted to the Raven Queen (naturally) and preferred the trident when she fought. Zephira had not apprenticed to any of the instructors yet, as she was more prone to looking for adventure in the mountains in her spare time. At some point within the next year, she would likely decide.

She spied him first and lifted a hand to stop Aatrin. “Good morning, Master Argonaut.”

_(“Velicia!”)_

The tiefling stared at Cyrus. “What?”

Cyrus started a little bit, looking automatically for the glowing paper bird and then down at the sword’s glimmering raven wings. He offered it back as he looked at her. The dark-eyed tiefling from the practice hall was standing right in front of him. “Zephira.”

Velicia started badly, eyes going wide. “Wh-what?”

“That is your name,” Cyrus said and then clapped a hand over his mouth. “I should not say it, yes?”

Velicia was still staring at him. “What did you….how—“

“When I touched that sword,” Cyrus nodded down to it, “I saw something. I was someone else. I believe it was the man we saw in the cave. There was a large keep in the mountains and you were there. You called him Master Argonaut.”

Velicia gaped, open-mouthed at him and staggered a little. Cyrus stepped into her, gently touching her arm to steady her. “I…I’m sorry,” she managed, eyes scattering to her boots for a moment. “I did not expect…that.”

“I know how you feel,” Cyrus told her and meant it, remembering the tunnels under Jildos when he stepped closer, peering into the dark trees around them. _I have to remember to thank Cam for not letting me get myself killed, if I ever see him again._

“You should still call me Velicia, just in case someone is listening,” the tiefling said, still looking off-footed and unsettled. And then she shook herself. “I do not understand. I have had this sword since I arrived. Why were _you_ able to see something different? Why is it more focused for you?”

Cyrus shrugged. “I do not know. Maybe we are all connected through the Raven Queen. She was your patron and you were a warlock.”

Velicia’s dark eyes scattered again, over Cyrus’ degraded armor and took a few deep breathes, swaying slightly. She looked a little ill. “I…went with Aatrin to find…find Morgan after we heard the story of her killing his family.” 

A ghostly figure of ash emerged next to them. Cyrus instantly recognized the man from the vision. _Caldious,_ he recalled, as the man ran a few steps, crying out in horror. There were two small figures on the ground, a boy and a girl. The man collapsed to his knees, examining their poor little broken bodies, the blood on their faces. He was crying. 

Velicia shuddered, staring as the shades were scattered by the wind. Others replaced it. Two others, specifically, walking out of a manor that was decrepit and empty. 

_”Do you think Morgan really joined a cult?” Aatrin asked, glancing back at the dark house. “This just seems so…off for her. I know her sword was there but…maybe someone took it from her?”_

_Zephira shrugged. “I would not have thought it but Argonaut was here and now he isn’t. So he must still be looking. The merchants said he definitely came home but he didn’t stay. His poor family. It was a monster who did that to those people. They were defenseless.”_

_”Let’s go into the town. Maybe the stablehands might have heard where he was going.”_

Velicia still looked a bit stunned as she sheathed the rapier. “If...this is his weapon, then perhaps we found him?” But even as she wracked her brain, Velicia could not seem to recall.

“Don’t worry,” Cyrus told her, gently putting his hand on her spine so he could walk next to her. “I have the same problem. I can’t quite remember everything yet. Perhaps when we camp, I will show you the sword or some of the spells I know. It might help trigger a memory for you.”

The tiefling looked up at him, surprised. “Oh. I…I would a-appreciate that, my friend,” she managed, a little awkwardly. “I am sorry—uh, I was not expecting this. I’m not sure how I feel about it. But I would appreciate that.”

So when they stopped a few hours later, in a small hollowed out system of roots under a massive, dead tree, both agreed to not build a fire. The fog was thick in this forest and everything rotting but damp. Also, neither were keen to deal with shadow forest monsters if they didn’t have to. But the golden paper bird flared a bit brighter and made a soothing chiming sound before settling into the roots of the dead tree. 

It cast just enough light that Cyrus could see to draw Kallas’ rapier. The inscription glinted in the warm golden light and he offered the hilt to Velicia. “This sword can cast some sort of lightning spell that was able to destroy Asmodeus’ barrier. I can sense its presence but it doesn’t feel familiar to anything I know—like a blend of dispelling magic or _force_ magic with an attack. But I was also able to cast _Finger of Death_ with it, or something so similar that it manifested the same way.”

Velicia took Kallas' weapon. 

She and Aatrin reached the beach around nightfall. Zephira was wearing a half-cloak, studded leathers and boots and a set of gauntlets with hooks attached to the outer shell. Her hair was bound back and she was crouched low in the boat for a moment, surveying the sand.

Aatrin had a clever sort of holster for his musical weapon, his violin. The instrument was spelled to not break, so that the human wouldn’t rip the strings off if he had to get it out in a hurry. The warmage bard still drew it to his side with care and respect as they got out of the boat. “Eyes peeled. There is some real evil stuff here. I don’t know much about pirate legends, but this place _feels_ bad, Zeph. There are a lot of Undead here.”

The tiefling unhooked her trident, taking the front as the night enveloped everything around them. The stars winked out like shimmering crystal over the black maw of the sea. They didn’t actually have to go far. The beach was littered with bodies and among them was a familiar-looking sigil on a cloak. 

“Oh no….” Aatrin could see well enough to recognize his professor. Zephira trailed behind him, wincing away to light a torch and stick it in the sand. Aatrin knelt next to the man and gently touched his cloak. There was a strange-looking elf next to him, with several fatal wounds. They were freshest of all the corpses on the beach. “This must be the other man they mentioned. Annungilon?”

“We should take the cloaks off all these dead.” Zephira stared down at her professor, trying to focus passed the anger that was trying to crawl up her throat. “That way we can wrap his body. We need to take him back to the College.”

“What could be on this island that would cause the dead to become bound to it?” Aatrin mused. “Percy said it physically pulled him out of the rowboat.”

“Some kind of _bullshit_ pirate necromancy, probably,” Zephira grumbled. “Some asshole sorcerer hiding here somewhere, perhaps? Or maybe some kind of curse could probably do it, anyone who dies here is doomed to protect it as Undead.”

One of the bodies started to stir. As did Caldious and the elf. The two were definitely better armored than any of the other corpses and, from the sounds of what the pirates had told them about the incident, definitely more dangerous. Their eyes, black and dead, flipped open at the same time.

“We have to be quick!” Aatrin sang out. “Remember, they’re Undead now, Zeph!”

“Oh, fuck me.” Zephira jumped up and pointed with her trident to throw down a _Forcecage._ It trapped five of the other Undead.

Aatrin raised his violin and played notes that sparked along his bow. His violin was not standard in several ways, besides just being unbreakable. The bow was not just horse hair but sparkling unicorn hair and the ash wood shaft was partially dipped in silver. The core strings of the instrument were made of dragon gut and wrapped in electrum. The body of the instrument was enchanted willow wood, bathed in twelve full moons, and all its edges were tipped in silver. It could be played normally, though the music from it was richer, somehow. Sweeter and fuller and more pleasing than any Zephira had ever heard. Its primary purpose though, was combat. _I should ask how he found that fiddle sometime._

Aatrin was of the cleric track of the warbards' college and it showed when a _pulse_ blasted two of the Undead off their feet and then four threads of lightning, one for each string, arced out. They each struck one of the Undead, including Annungilon and Caldious. The extra blast of radiant light and sound sealed their fates a second time. Aatrin had invented this spell himself and called it the _Sanctus Martelé,_ the Hammering of Spirit, as a matter of fact, on the College's very official Spell Review/Acquisition Request form. Privately, he just referred to it as his musical _Holy Hammer,_ slamming opponents off their feet and doing triple the pain to Undead. The remaining undead were trapped in the Forcecage and would be for an hour. They'd be long gone by then.

“This will be all we need, right?” Zephira asked him, as she knelt beside Argonaut. “Once the connection is severed as Undead, they won’t get up again?”

“Right. Are you going to do _Speak with Dead?”_

Zephira nodded, already digging in her pack for incense and lighting it with a pinch of her fingers before sticking it into the sand. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes to focus, murmuring: “Caldious Argonaut.” She reached out and touched his shoulder. 

The felled warmage animated. His soul wasn’t in his body, but more of an echo or a memory of what he was until the moment of death. Those sharp green eyes opened. 

“Master Argonaut,” Zephira said, as he turned over and sat up.

The man moved stiffly, and then his gaze steadied on her. “Ms Darloch.” His tone was too even, emotionless, but the voice was his. 

“What happened to you, sir?” Aatrin asked, kneeling down beside them. 

"Mister Hallowwood." The warlock looked at Aatrin, calm and a little unsettling before his eyes drifted to the beach. They glittered in the flickering torchlight. “We came here for an artifact. My…friends,” Argonaut said quietly. “They tried to take me with them but I was pulled back.” He touched his beard and then his chest. “Skrag tried to take me with them but the island pulled me back.” 

“Did you find out anything about Morgan?” Zephira pressed.

“No, nothing. Just that it seems like she may be in a cult.” Argonaut looked at Annungilon but did not seem to comprehend the body. “They tried to take me with them.”

“Do you know why or how the island pulled you back?” Aatrin asked.

“I do not. I told Annungilon to go.”

Zephira tapped the ground and looked up at Aatrin. “Since we killed him when he was Undead, would we be able to take his body with us now?”

Aatrin pondered that for a moment. “Maybe? We can try it. Master Argonaut, who is Annungilon?”

Caldious looked up from the elf’s body. “My friend. A noble druid elf I met in the forest.”

“Do you know how he died?” Aatrin went on.

“I do not.” Caldious’ green eyes were still and solemn, looking back down at the corpse. "I told him to go."

“We will take his body too then,” Zephira said, shifting over to the fur-clad elf. The tiefling examined him for a moment and then stood. She went to the other corpses on the beach, cutting off cloaks and belts and searching pockets for anything of interest. She came back with a mound of ragged fabric and wrapped Annungilon first, belting the cloaks around the elf. 

While she did that, Aatrin came up another question. “Master, did you take Morgan’s sword with you? We might be able to scry on it.”

“Yes.” The warmage reached under his cloak, pushing it back and unhooking a strap from his back. It was a long, cylindrical bundle, wrapped in fabric. Aatrin took it and put it in the dimensional bag he’d borrowed from the College. “Rhayada is also important,” Caldious said solemnly.

Aatrin peered at him. “Do you remember why?”

But the poor man just shook his head, monotone and sober. 

Zephira finished with the elf corpse so Aatrin helped her put the druid inside the dimensional bag. By then, the warlock’s spell timed out. The light faded from Caldious’ eyes and he fell back to the sand. The tiefling didn’t quite look at her instructor when he was still again. 

Aatrin removed the warmage’s rapier, studying how dismayed the tiefling seemed. He offered the hilt to her. “Here.”

Zephira started, surprised. "....you are his senior student, Aatrin."

"Eh, you might need something with a shorter reach."

Zephira looked down at the elegant blade for a moment before she silently took the weapon, though she looked troubled, reluctant. “I wish we could have reached him sooner. I always wanted to ask if I could apprentice to him but I was too late. And probably not clever enough.” She knelt again, not making eye contact as she began to arrange the rest of the cloaks around the warmage. 

“We’ll make sure to give him a proper send-off at the College.” Aatrin helped her tighten the straps. “He mentioned the city of Rhayada too but he could not recall why it was important.”

Zephira sighed softly. “I guess, at least, he died fighting.” She thumped her fist over her chest in salute. "All things die," she recited and bowed her head to Master Caldious.

"Only memories can remain," Aatrin finished and inclined his head as well.

Fortunately, they were able to take the bodies with them off the island. Both would have preferred to stay and figure out what the hell was causing the dead to be bound to the island but with only two of them, it would likely be suicidal. The pirates claimed the island had always been that way, guarded by Undead and not friendly to fellow corsairs. So perhaps it would be pointless to investigate but at least they were able to retrieve Argonaut's body (and that of his elven bodyguard).

Back on the ship they had chartered, the two bartered with the captain for passage to Rhayada to try and find out more.

_(“Something important happened in Rhayada.”)_

But Velicia took a startled breath and found herself back in the dark forest. Cyrus had a steadying hand on her arm. “Could you see it too? I didn't see what you saw earlier.”

“Only that….” Cyrus pointed over her shoulder and when she turned, Velicia saw a shadow of herself (no, of Zephira) standing on the ship, Argonaut’s rapier drawn as she examined the blade.

The tiefling looked down at the rapier in her grip. Kallas’ blade glinted in the dim light from the paper bird. _Justice, Truth, Judgement,_ the blade read and then Velicia felt a warm jolt up her arm. “This sword is very magical,” she finally said and offered it back to Cyrus. “I think it learned a spell from me. Now, the spell you described, that our friend used to free you, do you know if it was radiant in nature?”

Cyrus took and felt it instantly. She was right. The lightning spell, _Finger of Death,_ and now _Speak with Dead._ Perhaps the sword was collecting spells relevant to its inscription? Or maybe it picked up a spell every time it attuned to someone? But Cyrus couldn't normally cast _Finger of Death._ Interesting. If he ever saw Kallas again, maybe he'd get to talk with him about it. He sheathed the weapon. "I believe it was. He said it struck the barrier like arcs of lightning." 

Velicia studied Argonaut’s rapier again. It had no inscription but the pommel was winking like an obsidian eye. "That spell, my, uh, human friend could do something that sounds similar. He invented it but he only did it with a violin. He was a warbard cleric. He called it the...." And suddenly, Velicia looked aside as memory, no doubt, barreled in, "...the _Holy Hammer."_ She couldn't seem to help but smile a little at that but when her eyes rose again, was deep unease there.

Cyrus studied the muted expression on her face. "I will talk to our friend when I see him. Apparently, it surprised him, how it shattered Asm--_his_ shield. But for now, perhaps we should rest?"

“Yes,” the tiefling agreed, absently, still distracted. “I will take first watch.”

The eccentric researcher, Markus Landor, had not been difficult to find information on. And it helped that Kallas had been somehow permitted to have the flying carpet when Asmodeus threw him back into the material plane. And while this world was very similar to Naluri, Kallas began to notice that there were significant differences. None of the maps were familiar. None of the names were known to him. There were a great many ‘awakened’, which Kallas had learned referred to animalfolk that had been magically made sentient by an extraordinary event called _The Shock._ There also didn’t seem to be any dwarves around. 

It appeared to be night but there were no constellations and no moon in sight. _Even if I arrived during a new moon, where are the stars?_ There was no cloudcover either. Strange. The first city he came to after wandering east was Rathe. The prejudice about tieflings seemed relatively similar to Naluri, so there were no surprises there. His clothing did not appear to stand out either. He appeared to be a traveler, which suited him just fine. 

In the tavern, a run-down saltworn place called Shot Down, he could blend right in with the other vagabonds. The barkeep gave the gold piece he offered a curious glance but once he bit it and seemed convinced of its authenticity, the man just shrugged and got him an ale and food. Kallas sat in a shadowy corner, simply observing for most of the evening. Their common languages seemed very similar. When Kallas finally managed to speak with a few mercenaries, he was surprised when all of them knew the name of Markus Landor. 

“Famous researcher,” said one man, an orc with a mace.

“He started the Warmage College up in the Shield Peaks,” said another, a male elf in heavy plate armor.

“Landor appeared in Haven with Stark and Torrin, the demigods, you know?” A halfling woman added, sipping at her ale. “The Fey turned time in Haven, Alenia was a God. It was crazy.”

_Stark. I've heard that name before._

“Nova was there,” the elf threw in, pointing at the halfling. “Saw everything.”

“I was with the Burning Arrow, at the time,” the spry little woman said, shrugging. Her palm rested on the hilt of a glittering sword with a rainbow-casted blade. “I don’t know where he went after that though. He didn’t stay in Haven very long. Stark and Lux died in the battle. I heard Landor became a traveler. You might be able to find out in old Avisac though? There’s still a port there. Rhayada might be an even better bet, but it’s back to the northwest from here.”

“There was some kind of crazy attacks happening in Rhayada too, fortnight or so back,” the orc added. 

And so Kallas bought a map and a common rapier and had planned to fly the next night but, well, it seemed it was night here all the time. Daylight never came at all. Apparently, this had not always been the case but a fairly recent development that no one had been able to puzzle out yet. He went directly east towards the coast. Though, to the distant south towards the city called Haven, he saw plumes of blackened smoke, shadowy against the muted sky. 

In Avisac, he found the ruins of a massive city. Several years previous, it had apparently been destroyed during _The Shock._ It was populated now but it was skeletal in comparison to the sheer size of the place. The port still functioned as well. His careful questions (not wanting to seem _too ignorant_ about some of these cataclysmic events that had taken place here) led him to the abandoned shell of an enormous library. It was there, among the tomes and dust, that he found several books about Markus Landor and his companions. The professor had a research tower north of a settlement called Blackrock. 

It was hours of solid flight to the northeast from there. Luckily, the carpet did not get tired, so as long as Kallas paid attention to any threats from the air, he could keep flying. He cat-napped when he could, curled up in the middle of the rug so he wouldn’t roll off. At least, since it was always dark, he did not have to worry so much about civilians seeing him. 

The tower itself was an impressive sight. Ominous in the dark, but impressive. It appeared to be completely empty, at the moment. 

So Kallas finally rolled up the carpet, stretched his legs, checked his gear and headed inside. He did quite well, considering he was alone. At least, until he picked up a book called, _The Trial of Asmodeus._ As soon as the slender volume left its pedestal, the floor opened beneath him and he fell down into another room, tangled in the trapwire around his ankle. His hat fell to the stonework.

That was when he saw the group of people now staring back at him. _Oh. There are people here._ His duster fell over his face. “Well, this is awkward.”  
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	19. Endure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Illusions: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZrOI5eeENMc
> 
> Nothics: https://www.aidedd.org/dnd/monstres.php?vo=nothic
> 
> \----------------  
“Do you know what that is?!” Cyrus cried out to her. “It sounds very big!”
> 
> “About dragon-sized, really!” Velicia agreed, frantically searching the sky as they desperately raced after the glowing paper bird.  
\--------------------

The rain was drenching in the late afternoon, sticking his hair to his face and eyepatch. It was his second day. The day after he’d been ushered to the gates and expelled. That was Before. Now was the After. The only thing colder than the rain was the icy sweat on his hands. 

“You _dare_ to come back here, boy?!” His father sneered down at him from the doorway, throwing the heavy wooden slab back. 

Cyrus blinked water from his eye. He was shaking with dread. “F-Father—“

“We received a letter from the Council, telling us that they _spared_ your _pathetic_ life! It would have been a greater honor for you to face execution than to be sent back like a common vagrant!”

Cyrus opened his mouth to speak and then didn’t. His belly, his lungs, his body were heavy with the _shame._ The blistered wound under his cloak had burst the day before. He could not explain what he’d done. After all his training, after creating the pact with the family heirloom, he had….

_I ran from battle._

He felt sick, staring up into his father’s face as he stood on the lowest step up to the rambling old manor. “Father, I—“

“You are _not_ my son! Your mother is dead because of you. Our family is _shamed_ because of your cowardice! Your brothers can _never_ be knights for the lords of Jildos!” The man took a single step out onto the stone, pointing down at Cyrus. “You were never going to amount to much, I knew that. But this? I did not raise _cowards.”_ The man straightened up and took a stiff breath. “Now, get out of here.”

_No. Please don’t._ Cyrus tried to breathe. “But I—“

“Keep the halberd. It’s bound to you until you die, unfortunately. And to be honest, I don’t want any remnant of you in this house ever again.” He raised his hand into the rain, pointing to the west. “Go. I don’t care where but don’t come back, boy.”

Cyrus stared at him, trying to force his brain to comprehend.

“GO!” His father commanded.

Cyrus recoiled and then turned away, swallowing hard as he slowly staggered back. He reached out and touched the black iron gate as he stepped through it the last time. When he looked back, his father was gone and the door was shut. He felt a wave of dizziness crest over him and then the damp, biting cold settled into his bones. 

He wandered west. That night was a blur. He didn’t really make a camp. Cyrus slept against a massive tree in the thick of the forest, wrapped in his cloak. A week ago, everything had been fine. Normal. And now he was expelled and disowned. His life was abruptly falling apart around him. _Did I panic? What happened? How could I have run? A failure and a coward!_

There, silent and alone in the rain, he wept.

Cyrus had had many bad days since then but when he thought about the _worst_ day, that one stuck out to him. The emptiness, the rejection, the shame and the suffocating loneliness, tossed out by everything that had given him meaning. Cyrus had been cut adrift and the sense of loss had almost drowned him for two days. His dragon eye had changed to the green shade, of course, the most painful and the most tedious to tend. He finally just took his eyepatch off completely and let the rain wash the burning eye. It hurt a lot. It made him feel something. Reminded him that he was still alive. 

The only good thing about that situation was how it had shown him the truth of his father’s animosity towards him. Better to know than not. 

It had also brought him into contact with Cam. They might have been brothers-in-arms in name only, had Cyrus stayed with the military. But when he found himself in Bryce’s Landing and met the unruly sorcerer, a strange sort of friendship had developed there. They had their conflicts, of course, but it became rather more….brotherly than Cyrus had ever anticipated. 

_Before, when I was going to leave with Dagna, he told me I was a good person._ He frowned to himself. _Even though I told Dagna I would abandon her if her father couldn’t help me._

Maybe he just hadn’t realized how big all this was. Or maybe it was selfishness, a desire to depose his father directly. Dagna had implied offering him a place in her own House. _But I refused…_

He could not change the past and it was continually painful, this constant self-awareness that existed in the Shadowfell. He knitted his fingers together and took a deep, steadying breath. _Guilt._ His other constant companion. _Pride. Shame. Guilt._

He must accept his choices, his decisions, and his words and grow from them. They were like arrows, once they fly, they can’t be taken back. But he could do better. Kallas was honorable. Cam and Dagna were sometimes reckless and they teased a lot but they were good. Boone had Jazirian inside of her. There were other ways he could gage and learn about the meaning of honor, not just Jildos’ definition. _Their definition is money._

Perhaps, Cam had been right all along. It were as if—

And then something jumped out of the trees. It had one large eye but stood about as tall as a human, with clawed hands, spines and gnashing teeth. Cyrus jumped up. “Velicia!” 

The tiefling snapped awake and flipped herself onto her front. “Oh shit—it’s a _nothic!”_

Cyrus bounded forward with his dark spear, slashing up and around, spinning like a top. The beast was forced back and the warlock dodged in, stabbing straight and true. He hit the creature’s massive eye and it shrieked. Velicia came sprinting up from behind Cyrus, slamming herself into the creature and bowling it over. It slashed wildly at her face. 

Cyrus dashed forward as she rolled off but something happened when the creature looked at him. It felt like he were being frozen, paralyzed and then his dragon eye flared, hot and painful. A creeping sense of cold _rot_ on his skin—

Velicia slashed at the nothic with Caldious’ rapier and opened her palm to throw acid on it.

And then a second nothic came barreling out of the trees, smashing into Cyrus. The warlock rolled, jolted out of the weird spell-induced stupor. The nothic dug its claws into his chest, Cyrus grabbed his dagger and stabbed it in the ribs. 

Velicia turned away from her nothic when it dropped, about to run to Cyrus when a third nothic appeared at the edge of the trees. Then a fourth and fifth. The tiefling jumped on the second nothic, grabbing at its eye so she could slash its throat. She drug the body off, so it wouldn’t gush blood onto Cyrus. 

The golden paper bird chimed loudly at them and darted towards the trees to the north.

A sixth nothic came running at them.

“We should go,” Cyrus decided.

“Yup,” Velicia agreed. 

They sprinted side-by-side through the dark trees. It was difficult to see. Velicia stayed behind him, urging him close to the paper bird that zipped and dashed through the dead limbs and rot. Behind them, the nothics were screaming as they gave chase. Something big hit some of the trees nearby, spraying a shrapnel of sticks and splinters. 

The paper bird chirped at them but Cyrus and Velicia were moving too fast. They both ran right off the edge of a ravine, tumbling down about twenty feet. Cyrus scrambled to get up, grabbing for Velicia’s arm and helping to pull her up as he started to run again. 

Then they heard a resounding roar, shattering the silence of the forest and something _very_ large flew over the tree tops. 

“Do you know what that is?!” Cyrus cried out to her. “It sounds very big!”

“About dragon-sized, really!” Velicia agreed, frantically searching the sky as they desperately raced after the glowing paper bird. 

Behind them, the nothics were still chasing, screeching, blood-curdling shrieks as at least a dozen crashed through the underbrush. An arrow came streaking out of the dark, Cyrus felt it brush against his hair but he did not turn around. He dodged and weaved opposite of Velicia. He caught glints of her yellow scarf in the dark. When another arrow flashed through the trees and struck her between the shoulder blades though, he heard the strangled cry from her. The tiefling staggered into the brush.

Cyrus skidded as he pivoted sharply to sprint to her.

“GO!” Velicia commanded, throwing out her hand. Cyrus _felt_ the warmth, the glow of some form of _Shield,_ as it cloaked him, like a shimmering silk made of tiny stars. 

But then the paper bird suddenly darted back, its usual chime rose to a crescendo, a deafening cathedral bell, and then began to glow, a _pulse_ of radiant light lit up the trees. 

Cyrus grabbed Velicia, snapped the arrow at the puncture and helped her up. He kept her hand, keeping pace with her. She shuddered only that first step and then she seemed to block it out, running as fast as she could push. Without the paper bird, the tiefling took the lead. Somewhere behind them, they heard a _boom!_ and a flash of light and shadows. 

And then they broke through the treeline. 

It happened so suddenly that Velicia staggered to a stop. But there was no sudden drop off. The land was simply cleared here. The ruins of a large stone and wood structure filled up the space like child's blocks left in the rain. 

They both hesitated for only a moment before each moved at the same time, sprinting forward, tightening their respective grips on the other. The ruins were dark and desolate, dusted in ash and black sand. Cyrus pulled the tiefling behind a battered wall and stopped her there. He felt no Undead in the immediate area, so he turned Velicia to the wall. “Let me get this out.”

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly, voice tight and choked but controlled. 

“I am certain no one _means_ to get hit with arrows,” Cyrus told her sternly, as he braced her and then pried the arrowhead out of her leathers. The head was tipped in blood. He threw it to the ground and began to search his pockets for something to use as a bandage. “Stay still—“

And then something swooped over them. Cyrus instinctively stepped into Velicia, hands braced on the wall aside her shoulders to block her from sight.

It was a large dragon, gleaming and dark like obsidian but with warm, glowing eyes. It stopped above and then landed on the grounds of the ruins. At that same instant, the paper bird suddenly came flying out of the trees. The dragon reared back and blasted a white-hot bout of flame into the forest. 

Cyrus watched a remaining nothic collapse as the paper bird flew to them. It landed on Velicia’s yellow scarf and made a musical sound at her. The wound began to button itself shut, leaving a scar behind on her back. 

The dragon brightened, its eyes flashed and then it was gone. In its place, and now approaching Cyrus, was a man. He looked older, distinguished with a majestic salt-and-pepper beard, with a pack and a walking stick, and a canary on his shoulder. 

“Mut?” Cyrus’ mouth fell open. _Mut. The night before the battle. Yellow birds. Canaries. Golden dragons. Look after your friends._

“We meet again, my friend.” And the man reached out, squeezing Cyrus’ shoulder.

The warlock leaned up from the wall, allowing the man to see Velicia. The paper bird flapped over to Mut, chiming at him. 

“Yes, many things have happened,” Mut said to the paper bird, nodding to it. It flew back over to Cyrus and waited until the young man put out his hand. The bird settled into it, the glow faded, and it seemed to be simple paper, once again. “Strange things are ahead but now the pieces are set. It is time for you go, Cyrus.”

“Go?” Cyrus asked.

“Yes,” Mut answered. “For both of you.” He nodded to Velicia. 

The tiefling was staring at Mut, wide-eyed. Belatedly, she seemed to realize he was including her and so swiftly bowed her head to him. “Sir?”

“The past is the past, the present is the present, but they are always effected by one another,” Mut said gently. The end of his walking stick had a warm glow around it and they could see the magnificent dragon eyes of his humanoid form. “You cannot change what happened to Caldious Argonaut or Aatrin Hallowwood. But you can change what Zephira can do about it.” 

Velicia started. “What happened to Aatrin?”

Mut frowned gently. “Injustice,” he said. “You will remember soon enough, child.” And then the old man looked back to Cyrus. “As for you, you also have things to do, don’t you?”

“Is Boone still alive?” Cyrus couldn’t seem to help but ask. 

“Yes, she is. You are bound to her and she to you. It won’t be immediate, but you will see her again. The connections have been severed for all, save you. And now, that too must change, if we are to bring all of you back to your planes.” Mut opened his palm. “Take my hand and you will leave the Shadowfell.”

Velicia looked at Cyrus and then seemed to hesitate, drawing back to herself. 

Mut smiled a little. “Zephira, you may ask him before you go.”

The tiefling looked caught, guilty for a moment and then made pointed eye contact with the dark stone. “Uh, my friend, I never got to say your name. Do you mind if I do?”

The old man looked amused. Cyrus was surprised. “Oh…yes. Of course. Go ahead.”

“Sorry, ha. That seems strange, I imagine. Cyrus. Cyrus Sabal. Cyrus and Kallas. Kallas told me to watch out for you. I hope you find him again and, when you do, tell him I did my best. Except for the arrow thing.”

Cyrus’ expression broke into a grin. “I will. Except for the arrow thing. And here,” Cyrus removed the spear from the Raven Queen. “Take this. I saw that you used to fight with a trident. This might help you remember.”

“That is a gift from the Raven Queen,” Velicia reminded him, wide-eyed. “Are you sure?”

“Like she said, I have a nicer one at home.” He winked.

That made Velicia smile, looking grateful and a little shy, and she took it. “Thank you, Cyrus. I am glad I got to meet you.” She offered out her free hand to him.

The human took it, grip firm and warm. “Until we meet again, Zephira.”

And then both of them looked to Mut and, at the same time, reached for his hand. 

There was a brilliant flash of light and they were gone. 

“I don’t know where we are,” Cam said quietly. 

They had not yet moved, trying to absorb the reality of their surroundings. The bound up, webbed bundles. Slimy black webs. _(Ropes.) _

“How did you get free?” Dagna asked, looking to Boone.

Boone had tucked the note from Kallas back in her bag. She wiped her nose on her kerchief and took a deep breath. “Gregor helped me escape. He sent me through the mirror. And he…stayed. He must have done something to free me.”

Cam peered at her. “Did _she_ speak with you?”

Boone looked at the ground. It appeared to be some sort of carved stone but unevenly cut, treacherous in the dim, violet light. “Yes, she did.”

“How many times?” Cam pressed.

“Several times. I was there for…days, probably.”

Cam eyes flickered for just a moment. “She only spoke with me once and then she sent me back through the mirror. I wasn’t there even twenty minutes after I woke up in front of a fireplace.” He looked at Dagna.

The bard nodded. “Same. We had a not-great conversation. And then—_oh my fucking shit_—Kallas! I heard Kallas in the mirror.” Dagna narrowed her eyes, trying to think. Her mind felt fuzzy, slow and thick in this oppressive place. “He was with a devil and it said his name.”

“Like his contract?” Cam asked.

Dagna winced. “Oh yeah, that. I guess it could have been. No way to know for certain. And…well, I mean, it might have been….some trick….” Dagna’s voice suddenly trembled a little and she scrubbed at her eyes before she buried her face in her knees and took some deep breaths. 

“So everything we thought we did. Leaving Jildos, taking a fucking ship across the Straits. We all _remember_ that, right?” Boone asked them. 

“It was an illusion. A construct of a memory,” Cam said grimly. “She told me. I remember cutting Gregor’s throat. But there he was.” 

“How was Gregor able to help you escape?” Dagna asked, rubbing her forehead.

Boone frowned. “Well, I had a dream and Thioni was in it. We all remember Thioni, right?” When the other two nodded, she continued: “She said she could help. So I asked her to break Talisa’s hold on Gregor. I guess, somehow, she did it. She said that Talisa couldn’t…_perceive_ her. But I don’t really understand what she meant. I mean—did Lady Macwell show you the dreaming sphere?”

“No. What is _that?”_ Cam was studying Boone closely.

“It was this black orb with a ton of Divination magic. She said it could influence the dreams of anyone connected to Asmodeus. She showed me your dream of the execution.”

Cam went still as glass, staring at her. He opened his mouth to speak and then didn’t, looking away. He took a slow, deep breath. Finally, he said: “I see. So the earth genasi claimed my mother couldn’t see her in our dreams and memories?"

“Somehow, no.” Boone shrugged. “Did she ask you guys about Cyrus?”

“About how he reversed his Undeath? Cause that’s what she seemed interested in for me.”

Dagna shook her head. “No. She did threaten to scalp me though.” The bard chuckled as she began to stretch her legs. Her eyes betrayed her nervous energy. “And I feel like we’re being watched. I don’t like these bundles. I think they’re moving.”

“They are,” Cam confirmed, darkly.

“Can we free them? I mean, they are wrapped up way worse than we were….” Dagna did not want to get too close but she leaned in to the creepy, doll-like bundle, roughly the size of a humanoid. It was writhing and twitching, unnerving, grotesque. 

Boone drew her sword. “I cut you guys free. Maybe I can free them?” The paladin swept up to Dagna’s side. Cam stood but did not get too close, preparing to cast a spell if the thing attacked. Boone raised her sword and tried to slice through the top tether of the cocoon. 

And like a horrible flashblack, déjà vu in Grifto’s bottle, watching the web rattle and reverberate as the line didn’t sever at all. Boone’s sword bowed the whole tether. 

Something above them _screeched._

The three moved instantly, grabbing gear. Cam took the lead, zipping away from the body and into the webs and shadows. They could see the giant bundles of eyes, sweeping the area for movement as five of the grotesque creatures converged at the spot where they had tried to cut the webs. 

“Okay, so, nevermind on that one,” Dagna muttered. “Fuck. This plane is bullshit, my dudes.”

“I can barely see,” Cam murmured. “And it’s so damn quiet.” He stretched his shoulders to battle the chill that tried to sweep through him. It was cold here. Enough to be uncomfortable, to be always aware of it. Fire was probably a bad idea, considering there seemed to be a lot of giant spiders patrolling or something in the webs above. Absently, he touched his throat where the blackened webs had left welts on his skin. 

There was no day or night. Just dim purple. The webs were close and thick and every brush against them sent those ominous vibrations. And the bundles, the cocoons…they never stopped _writhing._

The air felt heavy, thick, musty. And the stench of thousands of bodies packed tightly in their webs was rotting, sickly sweet. When they found what looked to be the remains of a stone wall, the three packed into one corner. One would keep watch while the other two slept. Cam and Boone sandwiched Dagna between them, as she was the smallest. And they layered their cloaks so they could all share heat and keep warm. Dagna burrowed into him a little during his watch and he hesitated for barely a moment before he put an arm around her. 

No one slept well.

Up above, Cam could see the shadows of criss-crossing webs, hazes of cobbing, and then the lumps of people. Could this be where Kallas had gone? One of these poor bundles might be him. The sorcerer took a deep breath. Even if Kallas _were_ here, they’d have no way of identifying him among all these bundles. His horns, there were four of them, but they were small. 

_Huh. I wonder if anyone else in his family was albino._

It seemed like there could have been something interesting there. The albino skin was uncommon to most tieflings. Most albino, no matter the species, seemed similar in not being able to produce their own pigment. But tieflings were not most species. _Maybe when I die I can ask him._

Speaking of dying, Cam looked sidelong at Boone. She was dozing, probably just barely sleeping. She had been trapped with his mother for days, from the sounds of it. He could sense magic all over the girl, more concentrated than before, it seemed like. He couldn’t detect anything evil, just…._more._

Cam rubbed his forehead, as if to ward against the screams and moans they heard from all the bodies around them. It was too loud, in his brain. He couldn’t block it out. _Don’t suppose any gods might be listening?_ He scowled up towards the sky full of webs. 

_Endure. Endure. Have to endure._ He looked sidelong at Dagna and Boone again. _For them and for me. Fuck._  
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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone, make sure you're taking care of yourselves out there. We live in messed up times. If aliens invade come April, I guess I won't be surprised.


	20. Bloody Devils

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Music: Dark Desert: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Vo7n4j3OrNs  
\---------------------  
Hope y'all are staying clean and safe out there!  
Kallas talking with the season 05 kids is based around episode 218 (IE, that episode where I flipped shit when I realized that Kallas actually _was_ still alive.)  
\---------------------
> 
> _Wait, I’ve heard her voice before._ Kallas glanced at the woman. The _blue_ woman. She fit the silhouette he’d seen in the Shadowfell. _And the tiefling._ His amber eyes went to Lisan. _And the one who nearly died with a lizard-like head._ The lizardfolk who had been with the shades.  
\---------------

Dagna felt silly later for not paying any attention to the swell of voices outside. She and her cousin, Alex, were setting the table for her aunt, Rowan. The tiefling sorceress was at the stove, calling commands as she finished up her cooking. Dagna’s uncle, Jac O’Leeroy, was studying one of the maps he had tacked to the wall. 

That was when the door flew open. A purple-clad halfling fluttered into the front room. 

Dagna looked up and stiffened. “Corvino! What are you doing here?”

“I’ve brought you something, my sweet Dagna!” 

“Who are you?” Uncle Jac demanded, half-drawing his sword. 

And then Rowan let out a gasp as two people walked into the house. Everyone froze. 

“May I present, Delvin and Asha O’Leeroy, recently returned to the land of the living!” Corvino bowed low over his arm.

Uncle Jac went pale and grabbed onto the writing desk sitting beneath the map. “Delvin…”

Corvino beamed at Dagna. “Yes, for you, my sweet! I brought them back for you! Your mother and father!”

Dagna looked to her uncle, who was still as a statue, frozen in shock. 

The man he’d called Delvin turned to him and nodded slowly. “….it is not a trick.”

Dagna looked to her aunt. The tiefling was wide-eyed but when she noticed Dagna’s gaze, she pointed imperceptibly at her. And Dagna heard, in her mind: _They are not Undead. They feel like your parents. They’ve been gone for over twenty years…_

Dagna staggered, letting the bouquet of spoons she was holding clatter to the tabletop. Alex reached out to steady her, though he was staring too, mouth agape. 

_“Dagna?”_ Asha managed, breaking the silence with a wrenching swell of emotion. 

She lurched around the table. “Ma….Da? I….h-how….” 

“I don’t….know,” Delvin choked as he reached out, pulling Dagna to him. “You’re taller, girl.” 

Dagna threw her arms around him. And for that moment, everything else stopped. She couldn’t hear anything except muffled sobs. Theirs and her own. 

And then she felt the blood, warm and sticky. It slid down her hair, the side of her face, dripping onto her throat. Dagna pulled back and cried out. Her parents still stood there but they were _dead._ Delvin had an arrow in his eye and another in his back. Asha’s skull was bashed in on the side and her throat was cut. Their skin was now grey and rotting but their hands were bony, _grabbing_ into her—

Dagna jerked back from their claw-like hands, looking for her aunt. But Rowan was gone. Cyrus was standing in her place, approaching. His cursed eye had been torn out, lower jaw ripped away. Her Uncle Jac was gone too. Kallas in his place, neck still broken, eyes empty and dead. Her cousin Alex, gone. A dark-skinned gnome was in his place, armed to the teeth but dead, veins black with necrotic corruption, eyes red and empty. 

They surrounded her, grabbing at Dagna, pulling her every which way. The bard felt like she couldn’t breathe, struggling to break free, fighting against them. But the five corpses were clutching and swiping and clawing, pulling her down to the floor. Dagna tried to struggle, yelling as her arms were held down but all five of their mouths opened into black pits. They all began to scream and _hands_ came out from behind their teeth and—

Dagna cried out, thrashing.

“Dagna!” Boone’s voice. She could hear Boone. Dagna opened her eyes, breathing hard. _A dream. A bad dream._

“Dagna, hey? You okay?” Boone had a hand on her shoulder, leaning into her. “Bad dream?”

The bard looked up, seeing the wretched plane they were still trapped in. “Yeah….” She managed quietly. “I…I’m sorry if I woke you—“

“Nope. It’s my turn for watch. Cam is still out.” Boone nodded to the sorcerer. He was curled up in a lump, small as possible and appeared to be asleep. 

Dagna studied the handsome sorcerer for a moment and then leaned back against the wall. “I was kind of hoping the bad dreams would stop now that we were away from Lady Fuckface.”

Boone sighed, leaning back as well. “I don’t think she’s the one influencing them anymore—I think the webs connected her to us. So, hopefully it’s just regular nightmares?”

Dagna chuckled softly, putting her forehead in her hand. “All the gods,” she managed faintly. And then Boone softly said her name. When she looked to the paladin, Boone said:

“Dagna…while I was with Cam’s mother…uh…she tried to bind me to Asmodeus.”

_”What!”_ And then Dagna slapped her hand over her mouth but Cam did not stir, brow furrowed but his eyes closed. 

“It didn’t work,” Boone said swiftly. “It didn’t work. Because….well, Grifto, I think, intervened?”

Dagna’s mouth fell open. “What happened?”

And so Boone, in stops and starts, told her about the binding Talisa had wanted to do, how Boone had planned to call to another god, not knowing Talisa planned to try and bind her regardless. But she had reappeared in Grifto’s realm and met Nicnevin, apparently a Queen of Witches who was now apparently her other patron. 

“And then Grifto sent me back, anchored me to the dreaming sphere or something, probably because of the powerful divination magic to it. I stole some stuff and then Gregor got me out.” Boone looked away when she mentioned Cam’s brother, eyes dimming a little.

Dagna watched her closely. “Gregor doesn’t seem bad, just undead.”

“Like how Cyrus was. Undead but not rotted,” Boone agreed. “Talisa had made him….almost like a thrall. She could listen to what he was listening to or something.”

“Oooh,” Dagna realized, rubbing her chin. “So that’s why he kept making the ‘shush’ motion, finger to his mouth. I don’t know about the rest of that place but in that room, I couldn’t use my magic. I tried to cast a message but nothing happened. So she could listen in on him.” Dagna mused on that for a moment and then went on: “Okay, so Grifto interrupted the ritual and you were bound to the Queen of Witches—we’re going to have to look that one up. Um, so…can you hear her? Or what?”

“Well,” Boone began, taking a deep breath. “When I reappeared in the keep, I heard her in my head. She told me where the mirror was and I was able to make myself invisible. So I guess I’ve added some fey magic to….me. Or something.”

“Can you hear her now? Like, will she answer?”

Boone shifted and closed her eyes. _Hello?_ She willed the thought out, listening for that strange, powerful, somehow _metallic,_ woman’s voice.

Nothing answered. 

Boone opened her eyes and shrugged. “Doesn’t seem to be right now. But…I couldn’t always hear Jazirian when I asked either. But I can _feel_ how the spells are different. The difference in the energy, divine versus fey, I mean.”

Dagna suddenly looked thoughtful. “Huh, so you have two patrons now.” The bard gave Boone a sidelong glance. “Most people don’t get more than one patron, right?”

Boone nodded, brow creased with uncertainty. 

“Cyrus had more than one patron too, right? The Raven Queen, Bahamut, and then….Asmodeus? Or something? That one seemed to be unwilling.”

“Neutral, good and evil.” Boone mused on that. “The fey are neutral, Jazirian is good…..” her belly tightened. No evil patron yet. _So the worst could be yet to come._

“That might not be a thing,” Dagna said loudly, seeing how Boone looked paler blue at that thought. “But it’s just a small possibility. You made an impression on Grifto, clearly.”

“He asked me how Kallas was doing,” Boone snorted.

Dagna’s eyes dropped, that pang of hurt when she thought about Kallas and Cyrus. The hurt felt new and fresh in her physical body. The bard missed them. She missed them a lot. Kallas’ stalwart pragmatism and dry sense of humor. Cyrus figuring out who he was underneath all the indoctrination and training. He was so kind to Hunk and he’d tried with Boone—or at least hadn’t succumbed to mistrusting her for no reason. Dagna rubbed her icy cold hands together. “Well….Grifto doesn’t seem known for his tact, I guess.”

“He ended up saving me, from the sounds of it. Grifto said she couldn’t read my thoughts for some reason.” Boone didn’t meet her gaze when she pulled some objects from her pockets. “I also took these.” 

A ring, a bag, a dolphin statue and a cloak. 

Dagna almost reached out to the statue and then paused. “You know, given where you got this stuff…I am a little hesitant to touch anything.”

“I grabbed everything but I haven’t tried to wear or use any of it yet. I thought the bag might be safer to open?”

Dagna leaned back into the wall again. “Let’s wait until Cam is awake. I don’t want to start fucking with magical objects in this place. If it does something terrible or insta-kills one of us, or it will make some horrible sound and then ten spiders will come rip us apart…” Dagna shook her head as she trailed off. 

Boone nodded, quietly stuffing the items into her satchel.

“Hey, Boone, do me a favor though?” Dagna was still leaning back against the wall, eyes half-closed. “If you start hearing voices or seeing visions or, you know, painting devil pictures—just tell one of us. Okay? Just promise that for me. All right?”

Boone nodded and silently wondered if she’d be able to. _Cyrus lost control sometimes. The hand that killed the drow…_

“Please say it out loud, Boone.”

Boone grimaced at the stone ground. “I promise I’ll tell you guys if I start doing bad devil art.”

Dagna bristled, eyes narrowing for a moment and then she took a deep breath, shaking her head as she leaned back against the wall. 

The lizardfolk suddenly raised his noble head. “The Blood Wars, I have heard of this. A great conflict among celestials and devils that turned the sky red as blood.”

The water genasi, who was dressed like a pirate, Raquel, she looked at them all blearily over the lip of her bottle. “Bloody devils,” she echoed, halfheartedly raising the bottle.

The strange old man, Irpaks, snapped the book shut. “All right, interesting read. But I don’t need it.” He offered it back to Kallas.

“Asmodeus’ evil diary,” Raquel chuckled to her bottle.

_Wait, I’ve heard her voice before._ Kallas glanced at the woman. The _blue_ woman. She fit the silhouette he’d seen in the Shadowfell. _And the tiefling._ His amber eyes went to Lisan. _And the one who nearly died with a lizard-like head._ The lizardfolk who had been with the shades. Kallas was certain he was now looking at that man, Throden. The lizardfolk had several mushrooms growing on his back. Mauve and white, and then the green and glossy black.

Kallas looked back to Irpaks. The old man and the lizardfolk seemed the calmest here. “You said you were here because a god sent you?”

“Well, you know how it goes when you get visions. One person thinks a god sent them, the other thinks I’m outta my goddamn mind. But I’m pretty sure I’m supposed to be here,” Irpaks told him.

“Well, I suppose that is better than the alternative,” Kallas could not help but muse. After all, these folks were still alive. He studied them all for a moment. _Sent by gods. Just like me._ “Perhaps it is fate, perhaps not. But perhaps you could assist me? I must—“

“Find the ruby rod?” Irpaks finished.

Kallas gave the old man a nod. “Yes. I believe I know where Asmodeus kept it. He is not the primary concern, however—“

“If I was going to find a ruby rod, I think I’d know where it would go,” Lisan threw in. 

Fanel sighed heavily. Irpaks rolled his eyes and said, “Didn’t you get this figured out, like, ten minutes ago, man?” He looked back to Kallas. “Anyway, we still need to talk to Markus too.”

Fanel frowned. “Do you think he’s been captured at this Zigazig—“

“Zurigazar—“ Lisan started.

“It’s _Zir_agzar,” Raquel told them loudly.

“Yes,” Kallas interjected before more bickering could start. “I am confident that he is there. I have been to these mountains before. I know the path to reach them. I aim to stop this.” He pointed up at the dark sky.

“But it has already happened,” Fanel reminded him.

“No. This is just the beginning.” Kallas looked closely at these faces. They reminded him of the others in some ways. “I don’t know what Kri'zakth has planned, exactly. But this is just the beginning.” He showed the book to them. “The ruby rod might be able to help put an end to this.”

Irpaks eyed him. “But he’s still Asmodeus and still evil as shit.”

“My plan is to kill two birds with one…rod, as it were. To get rid of Asmodeus or to reduce his power.”

“So we’re not going to just give the godly powerful artifact to the most lawful evil being in existence?”

“No, no, no!” Kallas said quickly. 

“Oh, perfect, okay, so we can do this then.” The old man clapped his palms together, seeming satisfied.

“But listen! He thinks I am going to give it to him. I am not. But it needs to stay that way.”

Irpaks eyed the tiefling. “So, look, you can’t protect your thoughts.”

Kallas sighed. “I have no magic so no, I cannot. But I have found myself in...a predicament.”

“Well…” Lisan started slowly. “What happened to you?”

“I would prefer not to discuss—“

“Wait, wait, wait, let me introduce myself!” Lisan threw his arms out expansively. “I am Anders Chillwind!”

"His name is Lisan," Fanel said, shaking his head.

“Anders Chillwind Lisan, got it,” Kallas replied dryly.

Suddenly, a rumble shook the tower and they all heard a yell from the trap door. All six sets of eyes looked to it but it was the lizardfolk that went to the hatch and opened it. A drow with white tattoos looked up at him. Next to her was a suit of armor that didn’t appear to be occupied, but was still moving. 

“Oh, that is not good.” Kallas waved to Throden.

Throden needed no encouraging to shut the hatch in her face. They heard something strike it a moment later. “How did you get in here?” The lizardfolk asked in his deep, mellow voice.

Kallas nodded and put down his pack, carefully removing the carpet and shaking it out. He said the command word and it jumped into the air. “Come. We should go outside to continue.”

Irpaks whirled around first, pulling out a tiny harp. “Little firestarter…” he murmured. And then around the trap door, a ring of red flashed into existence. Then the old man spryly dodged across the room to the carpet.

Lisan leaned in to Raquel. “Are we sure this Kallas guy is worth keeping around? I mean, we could just cut his throat and take the carpet.”

Raquel tittered. “Yes, yes, but if he’s telling the truth about the daylight, we may want to keep him about for a hot moment.” She studied the tiefling’s tricorn hat and duster as they all loaded up on the carpet.

"As I'm sure you saw, Markus Landor had many traps in this place but, it turns out, nothing on the windows." Kallas zoomed them out on the carpet. This other group kept a respectful foot or so away from him. Throden seemed to be watching him but it was hard to tell with the lizardman.

Irpaks, the strange old bard, was looking into the darkness, muted, starless, black. When his gaze came back to Kallas, it was peering and intent, purposeful, _stubborn._ The old man said, "What _do_ you know about Landor?"

"Only what I have read. I appeared at the Spire with our carpet and I traveled east to a ruined city, Avisac. There, I found an abandoned library. I collected many books." 

Not just about Landor but his companions, Torrin, a dragonborn, and Stark, a half-elf paladin. He had an account of notes written about the alternate timeline these people had experienced: _The Good King Stark, an Account of Timescape and Multi-Planar Travel_ which had shed some interesting light on the vision he'd seen of a half-elf paladin in the Shadowfell. "One of them contained a reference to his tower, here, north of Blackrock. "

Irpaks studied him with those sharp eyes, searching his face for something. Whether or not the old man found it, Kallas wasn't sure. He just nodded, seeming thoughtful.

“But what if someone was to see us on this very not-that-cool, ugly carpet?” Lisan said, loud and haughty. “I could dispose of this—“

Kallas turned around, narrowing his eyes. “I could simply drop you off back in the tower, if you would prefer? You can walk if you wish, after fighting the drow woman?”

Lisan went quiet, sharing a bottle of wine with Raquel, sullenly.

“Where are we flying to?” Throden asked. 

“To the ground, far enough away to not be bothered by that woman and her suit of armor.”

“Just don’t let anyone see us on this bad carpet,” Lisan whined.

Raquel nodded along, huffing and rolling her eyes.

They flew about a half hour, Kallas staring forward and reminding himself to be calm, patient. These people didn’t know what was really going on. Hell, Kallas felt he only knew bits and pieces at this point. He took them to the ground and, when everyone piled off, rolled it back up.

“Is this where you abandon us?” Lisan sniped at him.

_Just be patient._ Kallas sighed. “No.”

“Why would he take us with him if he were just going to abandon us?” Throden looked at Lisan with that logical, cool stare.

“Because it has provisions—“

“Did you forget about the murder lady? The drow? With the bugs? And her sentient suit of armor?” Irpaks threw his hands up. “You forgot already?”

_This must be how Cyrus felt every time Boone accused him of something._

Kallas sighed. At least Throden and Irpaks seemed reasonable. Fanel seemed very kind. Raquel and Lisan would clearly whack him for a chicken egg. So Kallas took out the diagram Asmodeus had given him and began to draw the circle in the dirt. 

“Oh great, it’s art hour.”

_Just ignore him. He clearly just wants a reaction out of you._ Kallas did not look at the other tiefling, just continued drawing the magic circle. “It’s teleportation magic. Now, we have a deal, yes? You help me get the ruby rod and I will take you to your friends at the Ziragzar Spire.”

“Before we go,” the bard tiefling suddenly said. The ground around them flashed white. “I want to know if you are really telling the truth.”

Everyone else groaned and cursed, except for Irpaks, who just happened to be outside the range of it. The old man gave a little whoop. 

“Don’t worry, Irpaks. I’m sure you’re just a boring old man with nothing to hide,” Lisan waved a hand at him.

“Yep, that is correct.”

“You’re pretty much an open book,” Lisan went on.

“You’re the best,” the old man said, smirking a little, pointing finger daggers at Lisan. 

The tiefling turned back to Kallas. “Now, what is your real name?”

_Mages and their damn truth spells._ “My real name is Kallas Sallerov.”

“What is your intention with us?”

“To survive going to the Nine Hells and getting rid of this darkness.”

“Well, I am looking for a husband or wife! Someone I can bring back to my mother!”

Kallas opened his mouth and then closed it again. Somehow, that wasn’t what he’d been expecting. 

“And I’m just looking for a good drink and some good sex along the way! You know what I’m saying?”

Kallas raised his eyebrows, watching the other tiefling shoot finger crossbows at him, almost playfully. “Perhaps you will find one at the Ziragzar Spires.”

“That is possible, sure. One last thing. Are you a good guy or a bad guy?”

“I’m trying to do the _right_ thing,” Kallas grimaced, staring hard at Lisan.

The fortuneteller chuckled. “Perfect. Also, I want to steal your carpet. I will attempt to do so throughout this, just so you’re aware.”

“Lisan!” Fanel, objected. “You should be ashamed—“

“I’m just being honest! Do you not want a carpet like that, Fanel?” Lisan exclaimed. 

“No! I like traveling with my own two feet!”

There was a beat of silence as Lisan drug his hands down his face. Then Irpaks crowed, “That’s some dumb shit!”

Kallas suppressed a small smile, thinking of Cam suddenly—how he had teased Cyrus during their travels. The sorcerer’s way of trying to reach out. 

“You are stupid and craggy!” Fanel jeered, hands on his hips. 

“I’ll take craggy,” Irpaks allowed, shrugging good-naturedly.

“Look, you’re not going to try to kill us?” Lisan said over the others. 

“No,” Kallas said again. “I’m not. So long as we can work together.”

The glow around them all faded as the truth spell subsided and Lisan stared intently at him, peering. And then, all at once, he threw his hands up, shrugging: “Then I promise I will also not kill you unless I have to or it is in my best interest.”

Kallas sighed. “Please don’t kill me. I’d rather not another round of all—”

“Wait! Wait wait wait!” The elf waved his hands around, peering at Kallas. “You were killed before?”

Kallas pulled back to himself, closing his eyes to take a deep breath. He could still feel that horrid icy grip around his throat. “I would rather not discuss that.”

“But were—“ And then Fanel suddenly jerked, the lanky monk looking around as a silver disk suddenly jumped out of his pack. It hovered by his elbow and then zipped over to Kallas.

The tiefling stiffened but the strange little disk just fluttered all around him, up to his face, around his horns, at his side to his common rapier. “What is that?” He jerked his nose back instinctively when it zipped up to his face, batting it lightly.

It dropped like a stone. 

Kallas peered at it. “…..what happened?”

“I honestly don’t know what it does but a friend of ours—“

“I know what it does, it flies around,” Lisan interjected.

“It also finds hags,” Throden intoned, voice deep and even.

“And it’s shiny too!” Irpaks threw in.

“Has it ever flown around like that?” Raquel asked.

Fanel shrugged. Kallas knelt and picked up the little mirror. He couldn’t sense or feel anything from it—but he didn’t have any magical abilities either. He handed it to the monk. 

The elf took it and started. “Uh, oh. It. It has a dragon head now,” Fanel said and he turned the disk so everyone could see it. “Did you do something? The etchings and the gems are new.”

Kallas’ eyebrows shot up and then narrowed in. _Dragons are used for a lot of things. We all had gems but these are just fragments._ “No.” He shrugged. 

“It’s just a stupid disk with some conjuration and transmutation magic—well.” Lisan suddenly paused. “Unless it has a soul bound to it. In which case, you are now keeping a prisoner on your person.”

Fanel looked mortified. “Do you know how to get them out?”

“No, Mister I’m-so-good-I-live-in-trees! I do better at killing and disposing of corpses. I don’t know what happens to them after they die. That seems to be your forte now, my friend.” 

“I’d argue that you’re not that good at disposing of corpses,” Irpaks drawled. 

“It is the thought that counts, my friend!” Lisan told him, beaming, before he swiveled to look at Kallas. “What about you? Do you know anything about freeing people from eternal prisons that cruel people keep them in?”

Kallas' gaze became hooded and flat. “No. If I did, I wouldn't need the ruby rod at all.”

Lisan just smirked, handing the mirror back to Fanel. “Well, I guess we can couch this and discuss it later. Here, you keep your prisoner.”

Fanel rolled his eyes and turned to Raquel. “What about you? Do you know any unsavory types that could help get the soul out?”

The brothel mistress lurched away from her bottle, looking offended for some reason. “I do not know what you think of me, darling—“

“You’re a pirate!” Fanel reminded her, exasperated. 

“Well, yes, but you don’t need to describe it so harshly!” The genasi swayed. “But yes, I might know some people.”

Lisan waved a hand. “Fanel, I will not judge you. I’ve kept many a prisoner in my time—”

“We should help whoever is in here!” Fanel pulled the disk to himself, protective.

“Okay,” Lisan creaked, as if about to be interrupted by a laugh or a breathless wave of euphoria from the mushrooms. “So, we need to climb a mountain, yes! What is the plan?!”

“If you are going to help me, we need to make one stop and then we can go to the Zirigzar Spires,” Kallas told them.

“Walk us through this stop,” Irpaks urged him.

Kallas turned to Irpaks and Throden. “We have to go to Asmodeus’ castle, Nessus, get the ruby rod, get out, go to the spires and free all the trapped souls and finally, destroying the darkness.”

“You are taking us to literal Hell?” Throden asked, studying Kallas with those guarded, sharp eyes. 

“Briefly.”

“Being on fire briefly is still bad,” Irpaks grouched, folding his arms. 

Lisan waved his hands around. “Look. It sounds scarier than it is. There are people who have gone to the Nine Hells before and come back. Not all of them. But most of them. So we may lose one or two but, you know, what is there to gain? Are we going that hard for daytime or are we okay never having suntans again?”

Fanel stared at this odd, pale tiefling. “How do you _have_ this information?”

Kallas froze, eyes going among the five of them, and then to the ground, at the teleportation circle.

Lisan waved his hand again and the dirt flashed white. “Yes, do tell us this, my _friend.”_ The tiefling didn’t even bother to fight the effect. “I still want to steal your carpet.”

“Please do not take this,” Kallas impressed. And then, seemingly before he could stop himself: “It has sentimental value.” Brenna was so excited about the carpet. She and Cam had spent hours playing on it, learning how to use it. Dagna flying off into the night as Ebreosea burned. Tinker and the lamp, the carpet had saved them more than once. Kallas grimaced and looked away. 

“I cannot promise that! That carpet will be mine before we see daylight again!”

Kallas sized up the other tiefling. “We shall see.”

“But seriously, answer the question. How do you know where Asmodeus’ castle is?”

Kallas took a deep breath. “Asmodeus made a bargain with me. My freedom for his. However, he is incredibly dangerous—“

“Wait, wait, pause there, quick question: you have a deal with him to _free the devil?”_

“Yes, but—“

“Your freedom for his? So we are assisting you in _freeing the devil?”_

“It is much more than that. And as I said, I am not going to free him.”

This bard was certainly melodramatic. He gestured to the others with a flourish. “We are helping this guy _free the devil.”_

Kallas narrowed his eyes. “You really think—“

“Yes, I really think!”

“I am in your _Zone of Truth!”_ Kallas finally snapped, pointing at the fortune teller. "If you do not trust your own magic, why cast it!"

“What are you freeing him from?” Throden asked, quiet and calm. 

“He thinks I am freeing him from Kri'zakth’s power. But I’m not. I’m going to free my friends, get rid of the darkness in this plane and then I’m going to take his power away.”

“You know, breaking a deal with a being like that is a bad idea,” Lisan jeered at him. “I’ve heard.”

“I’m aware. I’ve already paid that price.”

“And it killed you?” Fanel piped up. “Didn’t it?”

Kallas pretended not to hear. “My friends were captured too! And if I can retrieve the rod then I can free them _and_ myself. I could nullify my own contract because the rod _controls_ the contracts!”

“Oh shit,” and his fellow tiefling’s face dropped open like a sack of flour. “Is that true? Oh shit. I still want to steal your carpet but now I want the rod too. Dammit!”

“You said this plane, as in more than one, does that mean you are not from this plane?” Fanel asked.

“Correct. I’m not from Irulan. I am from Naluri.”

“What a stupid name,” Lisan scoffed. “Why is it Irulan backwards? Not creative, friend. Not creative at all. Whoever came up with that is not a great namesmith.”

“They mighta gone with something a little longer,” Irpaks allowed, shrugging.

“We ought to be careful about insulting gods,” Fanel said, crossing his arms.

“Have you never angered a god before?" Lisan rolled his eyes at the elf. "You have really not lived. Let’s go anger another god. I’m in!”  
-  
-  
-  
-


	21. Birds of a Feather

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So ambient, much shadow: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-heSRbvCErU
> 
> The first time Cyrus uses his cursed eye and discusses how the halberd's gem matches it is episode 146. Tho we never got to hear what all the colors were. 
> 
> \----------------------  
Brenna kicked open a rickety chest. “All right! This is enough gold to split three ways. Good, we wouldn’t wanna have to boot Cyrus—we just met you! You should be able to get outfitted properly now. We should look for some fancy eye patches. Do you only have the one?”  
\-----------------------

Brenna was drinking from a mug of ale, kicking her heels against the barstool. She and Kallas were taking a few days to recoup after a pretty punishing adventure. It didn’t even feel right to call it an adventure. Go up the coast, sack a pirate camp. But of the seven that went, only three returned, including Brenna and Kallas, and the last was still recovering. But the money had been split far fewer ways, corpses looted of all the pirates and the ship searched top to bottom. It had gotten them both better gear, at least. Not to mention, paid up their tavern tab at the Captain’s Cat. 

She didn’t really notice when the young man entered. Kallas did. But then, Kallas noticed everyone that regularly patroned the tavern. They were there all the time, after all, and had been for about three weeks. Still waiting on word of Tinker’s death. 

This man had a bent look to him, exhausted and cold. He had just stepped in from a chill spring rain, brown hair plastered to his face and an eyepatch. The young man didn’t look at anyone, just slunk over to a warm corner. He took a hot mug of wine when the barmaid offered it to him, sliding a coin in return. His lips barely moved, a murmur of thanks and then his single blue eye went back to the tabletop. 

By then, Brenna had noticed Kallas’ gaze and followed it. “Another traveler, yeah? He looks tired.”

“I imagine he came with the rain, like many others,” Kallas agreed. 

“You think he’s a merc? Lookit the axe. Maybe he’s looking for work.”

“Brenna, a lot of people are looking for work. We do not have to jump in until we are fully healed.”

Brenna blew a strand of hair out of her face. “I wasn’t hurt that bad. I could still walk, you know.”

“Speaking of walking, we could go into town and restock supplies. We can think about what we might like to take ahead of time, providing we are still here.”

Brenna’s eyes slid over to her friend. “I’m sure we’ll hear about Tinker soon, Kallas. They’re bound to find something. It’s weird as hell that you can’t see him.”

So they finished their lunch and went. By the time they returned, several hours had passed. The man with the halberd was still sitting in the corner. His eyepatch was off and he had a cloth pressed over the eye.

“Ha, he somehow looks worse,” Brenna said, stretching out on the bar stool and then tapped the counter. “Hey, how’s that guy been all day? He’s not a leftover pirate, is he?”

The barkeep shrugged. “Been quiet, polite, paid for wine but nothing else. He asked for a cloth for his eye and he’s just been tending it.”

Kallas leaned in. “Is it a fever?”

“No, no, I don’t think so,” the barkeep said, raising a hand to waylay that idea. “Doesn’t look like it, anyway. No yellowed skin or eyes, not flushed or anything, still drinking mulled wine.”

“You think the weapon is his?” Brenna said, lowering her voice conspiratorially. 

“Well, I will say—he holds himself like a soldier. You know military types, they carry themselves a certain way. But he hasn’t threatened anyone, not belligerent.” The barkeep shrugged again. 

Kallas wrinkled his nose and glanced across the tavern. The young human had circles under his eye, the other was buried in the cloth and he was just slightly rocking back and forth in the corner. Kallas had seen that before. Some did it when they were enduring great pain. Maybe that was what grabbed Kallas’ attention. Sure, humans had a lot of advantages over tieflings like him and gnomes like Brenna, but the human seemed to be in pain. That was universal.

Now that it was pointed out, Brenna openly looked across the tavern at the human. “Hey! Hey!” 

The human took a slight glance up from the tabletop, trying to see if she was talking to someone else.

“Yeah, friend, you! I’m Brenna. What’s wrong with your eye! Are you hurt?”

The human stiffened. Kallas exhaled heavily and turned on his barstool. “I apologize, friend. She means no harm.”

The human looked uncertain and that was all it took for Brenna to jump up with all her gnomish energy. “Not yet, amirite! I’m Brenna!” She practically bounced across the tavern to the human. “We have a potion if you need one?” She offered out her little hand to shake. 

The young human took it gently. “I don’t need one, but thank you. I have issues with my eye, that is all.”

“Well, why are you sitting back here in the dark! Come sit with us! Come on! That is Kallas! He’s a tiefling and he’s real quiet and sneaky-like.”

“Brenna,” Kallas sighed again. 

She tapped her foot, gesturing to the human. “Well, c’mon. Get up. Come sit with us. Have you eaten? Do you have a room?”

The human glanced up at Kallas and the tiefling shrugged. “She is very stubborn. So you might as well, friend.”

“He’s right, I’m very stubborn. And strong. And if you call me small I’ll punch you in the dick!” 

So, bemused and a little wary, the human stood and walked with Brenna to the better-lit counter. He sat a bit stiffly and did not quite make eye contact with either of them. 

“I am Kallas,” Kallas said, nodding to him and gestured to the platter of fried fish he and Brenna were in the process of demolishing. “Eat something, if you wish. You look as though you have had better days, friend.”

“Warmer ones, certainly.” The young human inclined his head to the both of them. “Thank you. Uh. My name is Cyrus.”

“Hey, we were looking at the job board today and we were eyeing some easy-sounding stuff to make some money. Are you looking to make some money? I see you gotta big axe there.”

Kallas couldn’t seem to help but smile, rolling his eyes. “Pardon Brenna’s enthusiasm, friend. She is eager to get back to work—“

“My enthusiasm is part of my charm!”

The human looked back and forth between them with his single blue eye and then he gestured to his weapon. “This is actually called a halberd. It just has the axe head.”

“You use it for swinging though, right?” Brenna urged, grinning at him. 

“Well, yes—“

“See! We just lost most of our little band so we need new meat!”

Cyrus’ brows furrowed, looking alarmed.

“Pirates,” Kallas explained, shrugging. “Brenna, myself and one other survived, but I imagine he won’t be up for some time yet.”

“Do you think they’ll have to amputate?” Brenna asked, leaning in as if their former companion were in a sickbed nearby listening. 

A barmaid sauntered over to the human. “Hey, sugarbee, you want some more wine? Another hot rag for your eye?”

Kallas watched the human jerk a little awkwardly, not making eye contact with her either. Cyrus nodded and screwed his bad eye shut before he pulled the cloth away. He made to slide a coin to her but she gave him a saucy little wink and got him a hot, damp cloth from their stove and then a mug of mulled wine. The young man looked surprised and stuttered out his thanks.

Kallas watched Cyrus replace the cloth, leaning into the warmth. “Was this a recent injury?” Kallas asked, nodding towards his eye.

“Uh, no,” the human said, looking a little self-conscious again. “It’s an old one but the, uh, changes in the weather and such, causes issues.”

“Can’t you just go to a healer?” Brenna asked, now studying his eyepatch on the counter but not touching it. 

“I have. But magic can only do so much, at times.”

“Oooo, maybe we could find a way to fix your eye!” Brenna exclaimed, gulping her ale. 

“No need for that,” Cyrus said quickly. He seemed to waver for a moment and then said, “I can actually use it in combat, so it works out.”

Kallas peered at him. “In combat?”

“Like, you take it out and throw it?” Brenna made a popping noise with her mouth and mimed pulling out an eye.

“No, no, uh…” The human seemed to waver again. “…it was afflicted magically. So sometimes I can use it to inflict curses.”

“Whoa, that’s pretty killer,” Brenna said, beaming. 

“So you are a mercenary of some sort then?” Kallas asked him, studying the human. 

Cyrus nodded but he looked at his drink. “Uh…yes. Yes. I...am a mercenary.” He took a deep breath, as if to steady himself. 

Brenna gasped. “So you _do_ need work!”

The human looked at them, uncertain again. “I, uh, I am a warlock—if that is a problem for either of you.”

Kallas snorted and pointed to the four small horns on his forehead, shrugging. “Tiefling. I’m fine.”

“Barbarian!” Brenna declared. “I’m also fine!”

“I don’t think those things correlate—“

Kallas raised a hand to Cyrus. “Best not to think on it too much. Needless to say, we do not mind warlocks. And despite Brenna’s harassment, you do not have to join us but if you are looking for work, we will likely be around.”

Cyrus nodded and this time, made flickering eye contact with Kallas. “Thank you. I, uh…I appreciate that.”

“That’s fantastic!” Brenna sang out. “Because I totally pulled this job off the board when Kallas wasn’t looking, just in case we ran into someone who could take a job with us!” She pulled a slip of paper out of her pocket and waved it around triumphantly.

Cyrus snorted and, when he saw Kallas also grinning as he shook his head, the warlock laughed properly. “Good thinking,” he told the gnome.

“See!” Brenna cried out, throwing her hands out to Cyrus. “I love this guy already! Let’s do it! How about tomorrow?!”

The young human didn’t have enough money for a room so, of course, Brenna offered him a spot on the floor of their own room. Cyrus gratefully tried to offer the coppers he had left but the gnome refused. Kallas hung up a curtain for him so that he could change his clothes in front of the fireplace. The human was taller than Kallas and definitely broader, so they didn’t have anything that could fit Cyrus but he seemed more than happy enough to curl up next to the fireplace in some wrinkled, plain loose linens while his gear dried. His eyepatch was still tied on when he dozed off. 

Kallas watched the gem on the halberd change from blue to black. It took the tiefling a moment to process the change. _Did I see that?_ He resolved to keep an eye on it the next day, providing the human didn’t suddenly try to kill them in the night. Brenna had grabbed a simple hunting job. Spiders, probably. Brenna liked the animal jobs. Hopefully, just a small infestation that they could take care of quickly. 

That was always the hope. It ended up being a giant. Just one, thankfully. But not exactly what they’d been prepared for. Fortunately, Cyrus had a weapon with reach and some spells up his sleeve. When Kallas got sideswiped by the giant’s mace, the warlock had torn off his eyepatch. The tiefling was dazed, trying to orient himself but he _saw_ the young man’s eye flare with magic. 

The eye was spooky, pulsing black with no pupil. Just a thin rim of white around a soot-black darkness. It was strange next to his normal blue eye. The veins around it were pulsing. When he struck the final blow, a strange wisp of mist or fog or _something_ was leashed, snapped _out_ of the giant and into the young man. 

“Did you just drink him?” Brenna asked, reaching down a hand to Kallas. 

“My eye is…has strange abilities. Are you all right?”

Kallas stood, brushing down his duster. “Yes. Well done. Not what I expected but we didn’t die.”

Brenna kicked open a rickety chest. “All right! This is enough gold to split three ways. Good, we wouldn’t wanna have to boot Cyrus—we just met you! You should be able to get outfitted properly now. We should look for some fancy eye patches. Do you only have the one?”

Cyrus laughed a little. “Yes, I only have the one patch.”

“We gotta get you one with colors and seashells! Oooh, with electrum!”

That night found them back in the tavern, where the warlock asked for another warm cloth. Kallas watched the young man gently hold it. “Does the magic cause you…pain?”

Cyrus nodded. “Changes depending on the effect the eye takes. The black is necrotic.”

“Can we help you in some way?” Brenna asked.

Cyrus shook his head. “No, no, I just have to make sure I don’t miss my step on staircases.”

“Ah, no depth perception,” Kallas said sagely. 

The barkeep looked up as the rattle of horses and wagons rumbled by the door. “Oh, sounds like a caravan is coming in.”

Lady Macwell entered the room. 

The fire was still crackling warm. The floor was no longer peppered with candied nuts from Leopold’s little bard. Suddenly sensing Boone again had sent the sorceress running up the stairs but the entire wing was silent and by the time she arrived, the feeling was gone. 

Gregor was on the floor, unconscious. His nose and ears were bleeding. The folding screen had been knocked over and the mirror lay in shattered fragments all over the floor. All traces of Boone were gone. 

“That little bitch,” Talisa muttered, narrowing her eyes as she approached her eldest son. She knelt, examining the mirror shards. _Boone should not have been able to get by him. Nevermind break the mirror._

Gregor was still alive, Talisa could see. She put her palm on his forehead, peering into his thoughts, skimming his memories. Could the paladin have somehow altered his mind? The summoning had been interrupted but perhaps there had been some sort of magical interference. Talisa knew Asmodeus could no longer take a form while he was being held at the Spire but could still reach out to minds that existed on his current plane. That was an addition reason she had gone to the Shadowfell, so that Asmodeus could not attempt to interfere. Kri'zakth, of course, could not yet interact with either plane so it was incredibly unlikely that he might have done something. All the sorceress had heard was that strange, booming voice, that sounded like some sort of simpleton or puppet show character. 

She hadn’t heard anything through Gregor either. So somehow, Boone had escaped the chamber, disappeared from this plane, reappeared and somehow got through the mirror back to her body. Lady Macwell had been very careful to not let Boone see this room, in case of exactly this scenario.

The Lady took a deep breath and rubbed her forehead. Then she cast on Gregor. He didn’t appear to be physically injured, despite the blood in his nose and ears, but when he opened his eyes, he seemed…dazed. 

“Gregor?” Lady Macwell said, helping him sit up. His eyes were unfocused and he seemed disoriented. “What happened?”

Her son looked up at her and then he flinched, screwing his eyes shut. He put a hand to his face, making a soft, pained sound, as if suddenly racked with a migraine.

“Gregor, what happened?” Talisa pressed again. 

He swayed and she heard his thoughts, directed towards her: _I don’t know._

Lady Macwell peeled back her son’s walls, peering into his mind, trying to discern if his memory had been altered. But nothing appeared amiss. It seemed extremely unlikely that Boone would have attacked him. The girl wasn’t very bright, had little experience, and was prone to indecision. Surely, Gregor would have had no problem subduing her?

Then again, Talisa had had trouble reading her thoughts too. That should not have happened either. She’d tried to charm Boone, just to make things easier, but it hadn’t taken. Not once. When she tried to read her thoughts, all Talisa could seem to comprehend was…lights in the dark, burning stars that were searing bright. And that was it. The girl didn’t really seem to notice Talisa’s efforts, either. 

Who could Boone have contacted that might have helped her escape? Lady Macwell had had her younger son trailed as much as possible, of course. But there were stretches of time that she couldn’t account for. Leopold had been to several places with Boone and their friends. They had somehow even come in contact with a jinn. It had destroyed her ground troops out on the Rainbow Wastes. Lady Macwell assumed it was from a wish. Could they have had more wishes? Likely not, as they’d left the jinn behind. 

The voice she’d heard in the summoning chamber, though. It wasn’t angry or righteous. It was teasing, even jovial. Had they come into contact with any fey? Perhaps, that. There was a forest near Silver Streams…

As she mused, Lady Macwell summoned two servants to help Gregor to his bedchamber. When they were gone, then she picked up one of the mirror shards. 

Something white hot flashed through her eyes—

The same vision. But different. Sabal standing up from the dirt, armor shredded, bloody. Both of his eyes open, one blue and one silver. The blackened spear was gone though and the halberd in its place. The light burned out through the gem affixed to the weapon. 

But instead of the yellow canaries feasting on corpses in the background, there were six golden serpentine dragons forming a ring over the blood-soaked earth. And then that silver eye flickered over to Lady Macwell. A searing, pinpoint pain stabbed into her mind—

The sorceress went very still, dropping the shard of mirror from her hand. Her head was throbbing, stomach turning, and her hands were icy with sweat. She scowled, for she knew what that meant. His connection was severed but not by her or Asmodeus. He was no longer in the Shadowfell. Instantly, Talisa felt that fury want to rise inside of her. Her shadow flared, darkening the room but then the elegant Lady took a deep breath. _Fucking Sabal._

“You all somehow slipped right through my fingers.”

Fine. If they somehow managed to get back to their material plane, Talisa could, at least, be a step ahead of them. _Cadron._  
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	22. Family Ties

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a shorter one while I try and make my brain do work  
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Cryo Chamber's Shadowlands: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=000z5zd6mrc  
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> 
> She’d always focused on the angry satisfaction she took from her brother’s shock, of her parents’ fury and disgust. How, for just a moment, Boone felt like she had some effect on them, some _control_ over them.  
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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [The further discussion of Boone's backstory with her family was revealed by Steph on the Discord channel but was not revealed in-game. The bit with Boone meeting the others, though, I made up.]

To the surprise of absolutely no one, Kallas’ eyes flickered up first when the tavern door opened and a dozen people walked in. About half seemed familiar with one another, joking and chatting, the other six did not congregate. They all had weapons. So it was likely a band of caravaneers and mercenaries. 

“Ah! Oo!” Brenna perked up on her bench. “Another caravan? You think they have anything awesome?”

“Let’s try not to burn through the money we have, Brenna.”

“Kallas,” the gnome said, suddenly turning to him very seriously. “What if they have silverleaf?” 

“What is that?” Cyrus asked, chomping into a slice of buttered toast.

The gnome and the tiefling looked sidelong at the human. Kallas answered: “It is something one smokes. Somewhat…difficult to get ahold of in some places.” Kallas waved a hand. “Regardless, we do not need it.”

“Speak for yourself!” Brenna snorted.

The caravaneers were now taking seats, holding drinks and ordering food. It was all loud chatter and removing heavy packs until the caravan lead stomped in and waved the group to him. He appeared to be passing out small bundles of coins, wrapped in rags and twine. A few of the mercenaries filed out afterwards and the caravaneers all sat together, relaxing after their long journey. 

Only one woman did not. She appeared quite young but she sat alone, wrapped in a ragged sailcloth. There was a battered, mundane greatsword strapped to her back. She took her little roll of coins, carefully unwrapped the twine and counted. 

Kallas let his sharp eye take in the details. She looked different from the other travelers. Maybe it was the exhaustion on her face. Certainly the rest looked tired but for the girl, it seemed more than physical. Also, she was _very_ tall for a human woman. _If_ she was human, of course. She appeared to be but that didn’t necessarily mean anything. A scrap of a sash was wrapped around her neck and shoulders. It was currently soaked in rain but she made no move to unwrap it. The woman stayed for only a short time before going to the counter and requesting a room. After that, she disappeared, taking her meal with her. Unlike even the other mercenaries, the girl appeared to be alone.

The next day, the girl was still at the tavern. She emerged for food and looked at the job board. Only once did Kallas see her glance over at the three of them before she swiftly turned away. But it wasn’t until her third day, when she came down to look at the job board again, that she spoke.

Kallas, Brenna and Cyrus were all studying the slips of paper, recounting various details of remaining work in the area. The port was a decent place for that, after all. The girl approached, tried to look around them without any success and took a breath.

“Excuse me,” the girl said in a low, gravely sort of voice. 

Cyrus and Kallas turned and looked up a little, Brenna craned her neck. “Hey!” The gnome called up, “You’re that girl that came in a few days ago! Are you looking for work?!”

The young woman seemed to inwardly choke a little, making fleeting eye contact with the men before she allowed a nod. “I can use a sword,” she managed, voice a little shaky.

“Are you all right, friend?” Kallas asked, looking the tall human over. She was raggedly dressed, head to toe, in scraps. She had limp black hair but very vibrant blue eyes. She was pretty, as humans went. Like the barmaid thought Cyrus was handsome. But her eyes and face had the same sort of hunted look to it that the warlock’s had a week ago. 

The young woman straightened up. “Yes, I am. My name is, uh, Boone.”

“Welcome aboard, Boone! It’s nice to have another girl around! Woop! Come to our table, you can help us pick a job! This is Cyrus! He eats ghosts! We just met him a week ago! And this is Kallas, he’s a sneaky devil boy! And I’m Brenna!” She threw her hands out. “I am the strongest gnome in this tavern, at least!”

Cyrus smirked a little. “Please note, there are no other gnomes here.”

“Hey!” Brenna pointed at him in warning. “That makes me the strongest!”

Kallas took their bundle of slips back to their table and spread them out and the others took a seat on the benches. The young woman, Boone, sat at the short edge of the table in a chair. 

“Is this your first time in Bryce’s Landing?” Kallas asked the girl, just quietly observing her. 

“Yes,” Boone responded, voice still low and raspy. “I, uh, was hoping I could ask where you all got outfitted. Uh—now that I finally have a little money to work with.”

“Oh yeah! Absolutely!” Brenna beamed. “When Cyrus showed up, he looked like shit too!”

“Hey! C’mon!” Cyrus exclaimed, throwing his hands up as Brenna laughed. 

“Thanks,” Boone said dryly.

“Brenna is only teasing, of course,” Kallas interjected. “But yes, we got Cyrus outfitted in town. We can take you there today, if you like. It appears as though your gear has seen better days.”

Boone opened her mouth to answer and then physically hesitated before she managed: “Yeah. Ran into some bad luck.”

“With you on that one,” Cyrus told her in a commiserating sort of way. 

The girl wrinkled her nose but said nothing to that. 

Boone rubbed her throat, keeping watch in the awful quiet. Looking up into the webs and shadows was worse, the spindly legs of the spiders cast massive dark claws over the twisting bundles of bodies. It was oppressive. Suffocating. None of them dared to speak above a whisper. And the bodies…

The writhing bundles without faces, like the blankness in Kallas’ eyes when his neck _snapped—_

Boone shuddered, curling into herself a little. She drug her hand down her face, biting down on her lip to try and quell the quaking fear that was trying to rise from her gut. 

“What’s wrong?’

Boone jumped, unable to smother a small strangled breath. The paladin had thought her companions were asleep. She held a hand to her breast when she looked sidelong at Cam. “N-nothing.”

The sorcerer sighed softly, rolling his eyes. “You know, if you just admit it and accept it, makes that shit easier to come to terms with.” 

“We’re all tired and we’re all scared, Cam,” Boone snapped, glaring at him. 

“Yeah, I’d hope so,” Cam snorted in reply. “You’d have to be stupid not to be.” He glanced up at the webs, scowling.

“Well, I’ve done plenty of that too!” Boone growled, shoulders hunching up. 

Cam lifted an eyebrow. “……been stupid?” 

Boone scowled at him and crossed her arms tighter. 

But Cam continued to look at her, gaze becoming peering, more intent. “Like what?”

The paladin drew back into herself. _Yes, Boone. Like what?_

“You didn’t kill Cyrus—“

“I know!” Boone snapped. “It’s all these stupid fucking gods, using us like their little pets!”

“You know,” Cam went on, casually, “that actually reminds me.” His eyes were still on her over the top of Dagna’s sleeping head. “When we all saw your scar, you originally suspected your own parents, right?”

Boone suddenly very much wanted to slap the sorcerer. “Yes,” she answered stiffly.

“Why?”

Boone sighed. “Proximity! I mean, who else could have gotten in to the guest quarters—that I fucking knew of.”

“I mean, it was _my_ house. Seems like you would have been more suspicious of _me.”_

“I didn’t think your family would have any reason to kill me,” Boone grumbled, glaring at her knees.

“But you thought _your_ family would?” 

Boone opened her mouth to object but nothing came out. She closed her lips, looking away from him.

“Were they like Cyrus’ family? Bunch of assholes? I mean, my mother did tell Gregor and I about why you had an odd name. They expected boys, right?”

“Yes,” Boone answered, still not looking at Cam. 

“So they were really sexist? Didn’t allow you freedom or anything?” 

Boone hesitated again. “……I…I was allowed to train.”

“But?” Cam persisted, the lift in his tone suggesting the question.

Boone’s shoulders were hunched again. “I was the second child. Their focus was on my older brother.”

“Heir and a spare? I get that,” Cam snorted a little. “My father would have sent me to die in a battle somewhere though. I doubt he’d go through the trouble of arranging a marriage, just to murder me in the middle of the night and then disappear my body.”

“Well, you’re a boy. You can carry on your family name. I won’t.”

“Yeah, and that family name was Macwell. Very wealthy, very powerful. Seems like if they were on the verge of getting you into a richer family, they wouldn’t be upset enough to kill you. Especially since Gregor seemed to like you.”

Boone took some shaky breaths. 

“Is your brother married?” 

Boone shook her head. 

Both Cam’s eyebrows went up. “So they marry the youngest first in your family?”

“No….” Boone managed. She couldn’t look up now. She felt like she was suffocating. Boone didn’t want to talk about this. She didn’t want to remember. Boone didn’t want to remember the look of _betrayal_ on Helene’s face. She’d always focused on the angry satisfaction she took from her brother’s shock, of her parents’ fury and disgust. How, for just a moment, Boone felt like she had some effect on them, some _control_ over them.

“Not close with him, I take it?” 

“Not all of us can have a brother like _Gregor,”_ Boone sneered at him. 

“Apparently not.” Cam still had not looked away. His amber-hazel eyes were dark in the dim violet light but they were fixed on the paladin. “So you two didn’t get along?”

“He _hates_ me,” Boone grumbled.

“Why?” 

Boone looked down, searching the stone ground. She rubbed at the scar over her throat, rocking back and forth a little. 

“I mean, my father hated me but he wasn’t dumb enough to try and kill me at home, or rude enough to kill me in someone else’s house. And your brother wasn’t even at the estate that night—though, of course, apparently Cyrus wasn’t either. There’s that. So your parents hate you as well?”

“Yes, they’re assholes.” 

“Why?”

Boone could feel the pressure in her chest, the _guilt,_ and the anger. Her hands went cold. _Shame. Pride. Guilt._ Helene had _wanted_ to be touched. She would have been miserable with her brother anyway. The noble twit likely thought it would remain between the two of them. But Boone had gone downstairs the next day, smirking and bragging about it. Boone remembered the little smile she’d worn, watching the guards escort the weeping girl off the property. _And what do you suppose happened when **she** got home?_

“What does it matter to you anyway!” Boone retorted.

Cam snorted and gestured up with both hands, to indicate the horrible webbed darkness. “At this rate, we’re probably gonna die here. I feel like lies are kind of pointless now.”

Inexplicably, Boone found herself starting to tear up. She held her breath, trying to force it down. She could still feel Cam’s sharp eyes on her. 

“Not to mention, we’ve all had to air our dirty laundry. You’ve hinted a couple times that you have a bad relationship with your parents. If you had just said it was sexism right from the beginning, we probably would have accepted that. But your hesitance tells me there’s more to it.”

Boone jammed her fist into her eyes, rubbing them so she wouldn’t have to look at him. “I’ve done bad things, okay! Shit.”

Cam shrugged. “I mean, we’ve _all_ done shit we’re not proud of.”

“I bet Kallas hasn’t.”

The sorcerer had to nod. “Well, can’t argue with that. I mean, well, except for the whole 'entering-into-a-contract-with-Asmodeus' thing. But seriously. If Gregor saved you, then he’s done stuff that my mother would consider ‘bad’. Doesn’t mean it is.” 

“I was,” Boone replied sharply. “Bad, I mean.”

“Did you try to kill your brother? That seems to be a theme around here—“

“I _fucked_ his fiancé!” 

“Oh,” Cam said, quiet for a moment as he took it in. _“Yikes._ And I take it they weren’t happy about it.”

“No.” Boone looked as far away from Cam as she could, raw and exposed.

“What happened?”

Boone took another deep breath to control her voice. “They kicked her off our property and she went home, I assume.”

Cam didn’t seem perturbed by it. He examined her another moment and then said, “I take it that isn’t your usual method of introducing yourself to your brother’s friends?”

Boone scowled sidelong at him. “Oh, shut the fuck up!”

His eyebrows went up. “So it was?”

“NO!” Boone lashed at him, wanted to fucking hit him in his stupid, antagonizing face. “They did nothing but fucking _ignore_ me! I was invisible to them! But when that happened, it changed. I effected them. I fucked up their perfect bullshit!”

Cam’s neutral expression didn’t change. He seemed to be simply studying her, peering at her. “Huh. Well. I guess that makes sense then.”

“Yeah, I know, I did dumb shit.” Boone glared.

“Have you ever considered becoming a bard?” Cam replied. “Sounds like you’d have that down.”

“Why can’t you ever—“

Dagna suddenly startled awake. “What’s wrong? Attack?” She managed, automatically, eyes bleary.

Cam put a hand on the mercenary’s shoulder. “Boone’s thinking of becoming a bard. You should give her some pointers.”

Boone almost objected and then reconsidered, very much not wanting to repeat their conversation. She sighed, looking down at her knees. “It’s nothing,” she murmured.

“I can take a turn on watch,” Cam offered.

“Are you okay, Boone?” Dagna asked, more gently, looking up at the other human and touching her elbow.

“I’m fine. I’ll get some sleep.” And Boone turned away, curling her arms around herself.  
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	23. Just Cam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This scenario of Cam leaving Jildos is obviously just a thing I made up. It's not actually discussed in game.
> 
> \-------------------------
> 
> Leopold folded his arms and nodded. It was. And if Lady De’Boon had lost it all then she was probably dead. The sorcerer frowned deeper. “Something is weird about this….” Leopold met his brother’s eyes before he continued: “There’s no sign of a struggle. Nothing is broken or stolen. No blood trail or spatter. No sign of forced entry.”  
\--------------------

The morning Lady De’Boon’s room was discovered empty and her bed soaked in blood was strangely subdued. The servants initially panicked, of course, but by the time Gregor and Leopold arrived, their mother was already there. 

His elder brother strode into the room. “What happened!” He demanded, going right up to the bed and touching the blood-soaked sheets. The blanket and topsheet were gone. 

Leopold followed inside, peering around the room. His mother glanced up at Gregor and shook her head sadly. 

“I don’t know, my love,” she told him faintly, covering her mouth with her hand. “The poor dear. It looks as though she was attacked. There’s so much blood….”

Gregor took a breath and seemed to ease a little. “Why don’t you go to Father in his chambers,” he said, more gently, putting a consoling hand on his mother’s shoulder. “Maester Tanfey and Captain Harrison should be informing him now. Leo and I will take a look.” 

The Macwell heir looked out the door and pointed to the guards. Two lieutenants had escorted Gregor and Leopold to the guest wing. They both came to attention as Gregor commanded: “Lock down the estate and sweep the grounds. As soon as Captain Harrison is finished, I want to speak to him. And send Huntmaster Blink up here so we can make sure the blood is humanoid.”

Both saluted and hurried off. 

Leopold stood by the fireplace. The hearth was cool and filled with ash. It had burned completely down. The room smelled like blood but there was no trail from the bed. Lady De’Boon’s clothes and belongings were all still here. None of it had been disturbed. In fact, nothing in the room seemed disturbed, except for the bed. 

His mother dabbed at her eyes as she left the room. She was immediately flanked by a guard and two handmaidens as she went to her husband’s quarters. Now only Leopold and Gregor were left. His elder brother turned to look at him, hands on his hips. “I don’t suppose you sense anything strange? I’d rather not rely on Aboken. ”

“That makes both of us,” said Leopold but he sighed as he peered around the room. “But unfortunately, I don’t. I don’t sense any magic, which is a little weird considering.” He gestured around the room. “Nothing is disturbed, nothing is stolen, door wasn’t bashed down, and the hearth is cold.”

Gregor walked over to the windows. “All of the windows are locked from the inside. And even if they weren’t, you’d need a damn grappling hook just to reach it. Or magic, I assume?” He looked to his brother.

Leo wandered over to the windows. “The blood is, at least, six hours old. But guards should have been touring the entire wing all night, yet none of them heard or saw anything. It seems like someone carrying off a body would have been fairly noticeable. So my first thought is that someone used magic but I don’t have the spells to find the traces of it.”

Gregor grimaced. “I suppose we’ll have to ask Aboken then.” He turned and looked at the bloody sheets, touching the heavy stains. “….it’s a lot of blood.”

Leopold folded his arms and nodded. It was. And if Lady De’Boon had lost it all then she was probably dead. The sorcerer frowned deeper. “Something is weird about this….” Leopold met his brother’s eyes before he continued: “There’s no sign of a struggle. Nothing is broken or stolen. No blood trail or spatter. No sign of forced entry.”

“I guess with magic, a lot of things are possible,” Gregor murmured, still staring down at the blood stains. 

Leopold frowned deeper, watching his brother. “….you all right?”

Gregor shook his head. “She was….” He sighed. “She didn’t deserve this.” 

One of the lieutenants appeared at the door. “My Lord Gregor, Lord Leopold, Lord Macwell requests your presence in the private dining hall.”

Gregor nodded a little, still studying the crusted blood. “Make sure the staff leave this for the Huntmaster, Lieutenant. I’ll be by later.” He glanced to Leopold and raised his eyebrows.

The sorcerer nodded and they left together, escorted by the guard. The hallway was also clean, no tracks, prints or marks. No trails of blood or scuffs of boots. Leopold leaned in to his brother. “I don’t suppose there are any passageways in this wing?”

“Not that I know of,” Gregor murmured to him. “I believe that’s mostly our wing.”

“Wouldn’t want any guests escaping, I suppose,” Leopold muttered, rubbing his chin. 

The brothers walked down the red carpeted guest wing and it opened up into a wide hallway. Cases of pristine family heirlooms, uniforms, and gems lined the entire passage. It was platted with purpleheart wood. Every year it was exposed to air, the floor turned a richer purple. A few generations back, an aunt had found the beautiful wood in some distant war in the southern jungles and had whole trees cut down and shipped back. 

It seemed indulgent but one of Leopold’s grandfathers had done something similar about two centuries ago when he came upon rainbow eucalyptus in the tropics. The wood wasn’t suitable to work with but the bark shed off in vivid colors. So he had several of them uprooted and shipped home. Some other Macwell had built a special greenhouse specifically for exotic trees and plants they collected during their exhibitions. 

It was very beautiful but Leopold could only scowl. It was all bloodwood to him. After all, how many helpless peasants had they probably murdered so they could harvest them?

Leopold ran his fingers through his hair as two guards swiftly opened the double doors and Gregor swept inside. The classic white marble, trimmed in gold leaf, tiled the fireplace where Lady De’Boon had stood barely a week ago. 

Lord Macwell was sitting at the head of the table. “Close the doors, Leopold.” His tone was low and somehow resigned as he rubbed his temple. 

“Do we know anything? Has anyone seen anything?” Gregor asked, striding to the chair on his father’s right. 

Leopold followed more slowly after he closed the doors. His mother was not here, nor was anyone else. It was just the three of them.

“Nothing,” the lord replied, sighing again. “And given how much blood Harrison said was lost, she’s likely dead.”

Gregor stiffened in the chair, just staring at his father. “And?”

Where Leopold, Gregor and their mother were olive-skinned, Lord Macwell was fair. He was deeply tanned and calloused and every inch a war general. He raised his cool blue eyes to his elder son. “And we move on. It’s unfortunate but the girl is dead.”

Even Leopold was a little taken aback, eyebrows shooting up.

Gregor’s eyes narrowed, fiery. “She’s _gone._ She disappeared from _our_ estate. What are we going to tell—“

“Your mother will handle Lord and Lady De’Boon,” he snapped, interrupting Gregor to stand up and face the mirror over the sideboard. He poured a cup of mulled wine and turned to face them again. “We no longer have time to waste on these trivialities anyway. It is time—“

_”Trivialities?!”_ Gregor stood as well.

“It is _time,”_ Lord Macwell repeated, raising his voice now, staring up at Gregor, “that we move on. The outside world continues on no matter if you marry or not. Cin Amon’s forces are moving on the continent. I need you to lead our men to victory there.”

Gregor stopped cold, staring at him.

Leopold had circled around to the left side of the table but now he stepped forward. “Didn’t we already have this discussion? We don’t have the men. You’ve said so yourself. You only have ten thousand—“

“Don’t try to tell me my battle plans, boy,” Lord Macwell snapped, shooting a glare at Leopold before looking back to Gregor. “I’ve summoned one of the fleets back, they’ll escort you over the straits to the mainland. They will provide support and an additional three thousand men. I want to secure Thistlepot Junction and Marisport.”

“Cin Amon has twenty-five thousand men between the shore and Thistlepot,” Leopold recited back at their father. “Thirteen thousand is still less than twenty-five, you know that, right?”

Lord Macwell ignored him, looking to his elder son. “Gregor, I need someone I can rely on to go there and lead these men. You're the only one I trust to bring me back a victory.”

Gregor took a deep breath, looking at the mirror behind his father for a moment, trying to collect himself. _Poor Lady De’Boon and her tremulous smile._

“I need you to leave in a week’s time, Gregor. I need to stay and deal with the bureaucracy and I can’t send your brother.” And here Lord Macwell glared sidelong at Leopold. “He’s already shown he can’t be trusted to lead.”

“That’s because you’re going to send him to fucking _die!”_ Leopold burst out. “The numbers are against you but what? It’s more important for your pride?”

“Leo….” Gregor finally spoke, more softly. “It’s all right. It’s what I—“

“It’s not _all right!_ He wants to send you to a fight that he told us himself we can’t win! We had a meeting in the war room and everything right before the De’Boons arrived, remember?”

“Your brother understands _duty,_ Leopold. Something you continue to struggle with.”

Gregor still seemed to be in shock. “Don’t….don’t fight, both of you.” He drug a hand down his face. “I understand that life…continues on no matter what. And we have to move with it.”

Leopold’s mouth fell open. “Gregor! That is bullshit! We—“

_“Leopold!”_ Gregor cut him off, voice rising hard and loud like a wave and then falling again. “I still have responsibilities to the city.” He nodded to his father, then his brother and left the dining room. 

Lord Macwell went back to his chair and gave his younger son a cool look. “Was there something more from you, Leopold?”

He sneered at his father. “You son of a bitch.” And he turned away, slamming the door on his way out.

Gregor spent the days leading up to his departure in preparations, partially to keep himself from dwelling on whatever had happened to Lady De’Boon (his mother was currently overseeing that investigation) and partially because if he ran into Leopold, they would certainly argue. Not that he disagreed with his brother’s assessment. 

A week before Lady De’Boon and her family arrived, Gregor, Leopold and their father had a meeting about troop movements on the mainland. In regards to combat fronts, it was important for Jildos to remain a step ahead of the competition. But they were stretched thin and had a mere ten thousand men available in the area versus the twenty-five thousand from Cin Amon, rolling over the land like lions. 

His father wanted to send him because he trusted Gregor. He had already been in command of military forces three times and fought under their flag a few dozen more. Hell, it was basically extra credit at the Academy, to take bounties for the city in four-person teams. 

_But doesn’t it always come back to the Academy between Leo and Father?_

From an early age, Leopold had shown a streak of stubbornness and independence that their father was baffled by. And the more Lord Macwell tried to exert control over Leopold, the harder his younger brother fought against him. Leo didn’t do as well working or playing with other children. He was more prone to fighting and using his latent magic to cause trouble. He excelled at what he was interested in and blew off that which he wasn’t. 

Later on, Gregor could have analyzed his brother and known that while he might not have done well in groups, he’d be an excellent independent agent. But at the time, he had been serving his tenure at sea, learning to man ships and fighting pirates. His father had not been so understanding.

When Leopold was fourteen, he defied tradition and _refused_ to enter the Academy. Lord Macwell agreed (“Yes, you clearly lack the discipline and intelligence.”) and so Leopold was put under Aboken’s private instruction. And, Gregor could admit, that hadn’t really helped. Leopold didn't trust Aboken (and neither did Gregor, for that matter). Within the year, his mother arranged for Leopold to serve his time at sea early, to help “calm him, a little”.

By the time both were at home again, Leopold was sixteen and Gregor, twenty. Sailing had agreed with Leopold. He came off the ships tanned, lean and strong, with a mouth for stories and a taste for ale. Leadership came much easier to him now. And Leo had such a conjoling way with troops put under his command during drills. Or, at least, he had learned the motions. And honestly, that was half the battle.

_I don’t want to leave him here with Father. The two come closer to blows every time they argue._

Gregor sighed. He could try talking to his mother about it, at least. He nodded to the guards posted at her chambers and they let him inside. He would come see her after dinner, usually, to discuss the day's events. Though the last three days it had been to ask about the investigation. 

Talisa Macwell inclined her head to him as he entered. “My love, have some mulled wine with us. I know your mind is turning.”

“Us?” Gregor asked, coming a few steps into the room.

Leopold was already there this time, cup of wine in hand, eyeing him from a chair next to the fire place. 

“Your brother tells me you’ve made yourself somewhat scarce.” She offered out the wine cup. 

Gregor sighed and took it. Suddenly, he was twice as tired. “Preparations have to be made.”

Talisa nodded, glancing at her younger son. “Your father is correct, in that, life goes on. But Leopold assumed you would come to speak to me about the investigation.”

Gregor resisted looking at Leopold to wrinkle his nose at him. “Have you found anything?”

“Nothing new, I’m afraid,” Lady Talisa told him. “I will keep you updated as I can while you’re gone. I want to find her just as much as you, my dear. Hopefully alive. Huntmaster Blink did find the blood to be humanoid.”

“You really aren’t going to reconsider this? Either of you? I thought you, at least, would try and talk sense into him,” Leopold said, looking to his mother. “Father is sending him to a battle he can’t win—“

“Leopold,” his mother said, dark and sharp. “The world cannot revolve around our _whims.”_

The sorcerer made a frustrated growl. “I’m not saying it _should!_ I’m saying this is _stupid_ and _pointless!”_

“Father trusts me,” Gregor sounded tired when he spoke down into his wine cup. Then he looked at his mother. “If you find the people who hurt her, I want them.”

“Of course, Gregor,” she assured him, touching his arm. “I’ll see to it that they live long enough for you to meet them.”

Leopold was looking back and forth between the two of them. “Mother, you’re going to _let_ this happen—“

“We _all_ have our duties to this city,” Talisa replied, looking down her nose at Leopold for a moment. “If we cannot _lead_ then how can we expect our troops to fight?”

Leopold drug his hand through his hair. “Gregor, this is _exactly_ the kind of bullshit our family does! They want to guilt you into a battle for his fucking _pride!”_

“Leopold,” Gregor cut him off, gently this time. “Stop. Just stop.”

His brother stood up, shaking his head. “I can’t fucking believe this.” And with that, he simply walked out. 

Gregor watched him go, mournfully, but his mother touched his arm again. 

“He will come around one day, Gregor.”

Gregor frowned and looked down at the floor. “I don’t think he will.”

Leopold didn’t go to the ceremony when Gregor left. He stayed in his rooms, making his own preparations. The Macwell colors bled out of his tabards and the black soot took its place. He packed up maps, pipe weed, his sword and a dagger. A few hundred gold and rations, hidden in different pouches and pockets. Leopold mussed his hair out of place and drew up his thickest cloak with the deepest pockets.

Before he opened the passageway, he pulled off his signet ring and placed it down on his desk. The sorcerer grimaced at it for a long moment and then he turned to his hearth and pressed in the trick tile. A stone clicked in the wall and the passage grated open. A draft of cold, musty air flooded into his bedroom. 

He would have to avoid the primary port in the city. Too many captains knew him. But he could go to the north side of the island and hook up with trader vessels heading back out to sea. That was safer than trying to go to the mainland directly north of Jildos. The Sharpfleece plains had orcs and meat-eating sheep. But if he worked on a ship, he could eventually get off at a port somewhere. 

Leopold closed the door, nodding when he heard the locking mechanism click. He felt blindly in the darkness for a moment until his hand found the sconce he frequently left a torch in. 

Lighting it with a wave of his hand, Leopold set off down into the sewer tunnels. It took most of the night to navigate the incredible maze underneath the city. The layout of Jildos was massive, as cities went. The tunnels underneath stretched even farther and had outlets in every direction. The farthest tunnel north being twenty miles outside the city. It also was not well-maintenanced and Leopold had to wade through walls of spider webs and animal bones to finally slip into an underground outpost. This was also stone, damp and dank and thankfully, empty. Leopold was able to emerge into a rickety hunting shack in the middle of a wooded glen.

When Leopold slipped out into the late afternoon shadows, he headed into the trees. He camped alone for two days, always keeping an ear out for running guards or any shouting. He had no way of knowing if his mother had sent people after him so he traveled always with an eye looking back. His vigilance paid off and he was able to get into a much smaller port at the north end of the island simply called Highport. 

It was a bustling little city, as it was the first stop for trading ships from the north. All were required to be inspected before heading downriver to the capital. Several taverns popped up all around the port and so the nighttime alehounds and sailors either coming in or preparing to leave all gathered for talk and drink. 

Leopold found the largest tavern and searched out a captain to appeal to. 

He found a barrel-chested man with a close-shaven beard and tiny ash-blond warrior braids. He had a longsword and a scimitar at his hip. This large human leaned back in his chair when Leopold approached with a smile and asked who the captain of their crew might be. He looked Leopold up and down. "That'd be me. What do you want?"

"Looking to work my way across the water, Captain," Leopold told him, keeping eye contact with the human.

That made the man's eyebrows raise up, and he sat up straighter to get a better look at him. “You ever sailed, boy?”

“I have, sir,” Leopold answered him, carefully polite but still keeping eye contact. “I can work for passage, if that’d fit?”

“Where you lookin to go, son?”

Leopold shrugged. “Anywhere that ain’t here, sir.”

That made the captain crack a smile. “Well said, boy. I can understand that. Go to the port, find my ship. It’s called the _Humming Depths._ My cargo-master is there. His name is Ollier. Tell him Captain Vrosstan sent you.”

“All right. _Humming Depths._ Find the cargo-master, his name is Ollier. Tell him the boss sent me.”

“What’s your name, boy,” Captain Vrosstan asked, peering at him.

Leopold took a silent breath and then said: “Cam. Just Cam.”  
-  
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	24. Dreaming Dead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I made up all this stuff about the Far Realms for Kri'zakth. Cause I imagine he didn't have a Starbucks to chill at.
> 
> Music: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VCKVOdm7BRQ  
\---------------------  
There was a breath of quiet in her mind and then a blaring drone of noise. It forced her to her knees. There were eyes on the ground and up in the air, staring at her, _into_ her. The great layers of the multiverse were like a film in the sky above. Like an open book with pages made of glossy webbing and taffy. They stretched and waved, absorbing light, wind, magic and creatures.  
\-------------------------

“Tell me, Lady Talisa, what sort of magic interests you?” Lord Buvgai Aboken, the tiefling mage, asked, inclining his head to her politely. 

The Lady’s study was warm woods and rich red carpets. And now that she had produced an heir for Lord Macwell, she seemed suddenly encumbered with unoccupied time. She took care of Gregor herself, of course, but matters of state were no longer brought to her.

But Aboken had noticed that this young lady, originally an outsider of Jildos, showed no insecurity at that. Talisa had a silver tongue and was quick to fill her husband’s insecurities with bricks of gentle smiles and encouragement. There was just something about her. And so the tiefling had come, pleased that she had requested his input about magic social circles within the city. To his knowledge, Talisa knew very little magic. 

Or, well, that’s what he’d been told. Standing in her study and permitted to examine her, the woman definitely had a spicy linger of magic about her. But, more interesting, it was necrotic magic and raw sorcery. 

The lovely young mother, olive-toned and graceful, bowed to him. “Is there a limit on what I might study?”

“Oh no, my lady, I only ask so that I may better direct your inquiries. I can tell that you have already had some study in necromancy, though, to your credit, it is difficult to tell.” That was the only time Aboken saw just a minute _flicker_ in her hazel eyes. 

Talisa studied his expression carefully. “Is that something that offends you, Lord Aboken?”

The tiefling placed a hand over his heart and bowed to her. “In fact it does not, my lady. Necromancy is a specialty of mine. It is not often I find another practitioner. But I had heard, my lady, that you knew no magic?”

Talisa’s shoulders were straight and proud and she lifted her nose when she said, “I believe a young lady is due a few secrets. My family understood that much can be used against a woman, if it is known.”

“Given my heritage as a tiefling, I understand that better than most, my lady.” Aboken smiled. “I can give you some materials that might be relevant to your interests and see what you think, with discretion, of course.” He bowed again.

Her eyes sharpened but then she bowed back. Aboken kept his word. Over time, he found that Talisa was far beyond basic level necromancy. That she had already traveled to other planes. Among her own family, it was a considered a rite of passage at thirteen to be escorted to the Shadowfell and back by a trusted relative (traditionally a grandparent). 

She was so talented and so discrete at hiding it that Aboken eventually would sit with her to ask what she knew about Kri'zakth.

Talisa sipped her wine. Gregor was sitting on the floor in front of the fire. The toddling little thing had a toy he was swinging around. “Nothing. Some sort of demon or devil?”

“Beyond that, my Lady. A being from the Far Realms. Kri'zakth wishes to return to the material plane. Myself and others act as his hands in this plane.”

Her eyes narrowed, watching him closely again. “….in exchange for what? In my experience, no one would do something like that for free.”

“For power, my lady. For a great _deal_ of power.”

Talisa seemed to think on that quietly, eyes turning to her son. 

“If you would like, my lady, I can give you an invitation to our next gathering? We have been in need of a mage of your caliber for some time. 

And so he did. Talisa handled herself perfectly, of course. And she was fascinated by her new social circle, eager to learn from them. After a year among them, on the winter solstice, the time came to finally attempt another communing with Kri'zakth. It was Lady Talisa, selected by her peers, that was to be their representative. She had never been to the Far Realm but she knew it was full of insanity-inflicting horrors. But, the tantalizing magic, the knowledge, could be worth it. She was, second only to Aboken, the strongest sorceress among them but virtually unknown. They all agreed to continue to façade. Lady Macwell, the gentle, dignified wife, made it much easier for Talisa to hide in plain sight.

Aboken had been hesitant, for the first time since he’d initially spoken about magic. She _was_ Lady Macwell, after all. If something happened to her, it might expose all of them. Talisa considered that only long enough to get a few arrangements made. For it seemed obvious to her cunning mind. She was confident, sure of herself, sure of her willpower. Those others who failed? Probably fearful and weak. People fear what they don’t understand.

Her husband, Lord Macwell, was away at another battle ground. There was an heir for the position, little Gregor, who watched her hidden magical studies with a child’s innocence. Gregor could simply stay here in her apartments with her handmaidens. They were all combat-trained, after all. (All handmaidens of Jildos were, making them excellent bodyguards and, occasionally, assassins. There was a special sect at the Academy for them.) And she had made a point to earn their trust since her arrival three years previous. They would believe whatever excuse she gave them. (“Just for the night, my dears. My Lord Husband wrote to me, urging me to keep busy while he is away. So I am going to speak with Lord Aboken about our political affairs. Perhaps I can assist him.”)

She planned her trip carefully, showing up to the council building in her gown and then changing into armor, with weapons and magic at the ready. Even warlocks that made deals with their patrons could not always expect to be protected by them. Or from them, for that matter. The gathering of a dozen or so people had lost others in the past when doing exactly this. They prayed and worshiped and communed with Kri’zakth but none of them had ever _seen_ him. None of them had even heard the name until they came to Jildos, just like Talisa. 

The ritual required to send her there was also extensive. There were no known portals to the Far Realms, after all. It required ten lives. And there was no certainty that she would return. The spell outlined only that people before her had gone there. The few who returned had almost nothing coherent to tell the others. Two even seemed to have reached Kri’zakth but were so damaged they could not communicate how they had come back. 

That was the turning point for Talisa. This was different from going to the Shadowfell. Like going to the Nine Hells, souls were required to pay the toll. When she was ready, Aboken met her in his office and then took her into one of the many secret passages that spiderwebbed through Jildos. 

They both knew the route by now but Talisa was content to follow, breathing slow and even. She was ruminating how to prepare herself for a realm that was basically insanity but concluded that doing so was ultimately pointless. She would have to adapt or die. 

“The prisoners you sent us definitely speeded up this process, my lady,” Aboken told her quietly. “Gathering ten souls without anyone noticing can be difficult.”

“Yes, I imagine it would be,” she answered, hands folded together. They were passing through a cell corridor. “They’re sentenced to death anyway. I assume Kri’zakth doesn’t care if they’re willing or not.”

“That is true,” Aboken agreed as he finally opened a gate and led her into a ritual chamber. Five of the others were already there, cleaning and lighting candles. The other five were preparing a sort of station with food, water and blankets, to be used if Talisa returned. _I **will** return._

The ten prisoners were hauled in, gagged, bound and dumped around the chamber in blood-stained spots. Some of them were struggling. One was cursing around her gag. Their throats were cut in short order and Talisa entered the carved circle. The others chanted, sharing their own blood, offering their power to propel their chosen traveler to the Far Realm. 

The torches and fires all pulled in, light dimming, shadows reaching with branching fingers to brush against her own. Talisa felt a rush of adrenaline. She’d expected fear but the stab was of _excitement._ The cool touch was stable, soothing, _dark—_

And the ritual chamber was gone.

Deep down, Talisa had, perhaps, hoped that the Far Realm would just have a lot of talk associated with it. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad. She’d been terrified as a girl to go to the Shadowfell but afterwards, wondered at why she’d been so scared. But that was not to be here. The sorceress had no way of knowing if she had reached her destination. It was difficult to focus her eyes on any one object. But her mind was clear. And yet, nothing felt right. Her whole body hurt, everything ached down to the nerve endings. Even the heavy air was uncomfortable. There was no gravity and she began to move almost instinctively. But she could think. Her mind hadn’t immediately snapped. The sky was heavy and silent. Lady Talisa took some moments there, adjusting herself. And finally, she was able to look up and _see._

Everything was glossy, ethereal blue. There were milky-white rivers in the air. Nodes of stone hung like baubles. Some emanated light, others were flowing with water, one with a syrupy-looking redness that she stepped away from swiftly. Formations of stone were littered on the ground. They seemed almost like statues but malformed. Figures of wretched-looking birds, massive in scale and twisted. Talisa summoned a spectral horse to herself. It trotted over an ominous pit hidden by a long, narrow crack in the ground. A giant pulsing eye stared down at her from a coiling tendril or vine, Talisa wasn’t sure which. She _felt_ its gaze lance into her. It sent an icy cold _bolt_ into her belly.

Her mind was filled up with screaming, shrieking, moans of pain or ecstasy, death rattles, drowning and combat. Talisa hung onto her spectral horse. Her nose and ears began to bleed. Her vision was blurring, stinging. The horse jolted, tumbling and then whisking through the lack of gravity. 

Everything was pressing down on her as she raced across the strange realm. It was hard to remember which way was up when there was no gravity. Images were cramming themselves into her brain.

Her first venture into the Shadowfell alone. Her first time fighting a nothic. A handsome young man in grubby armor. Her mother explaining the logic behind her wedding into the Macwell family. A set of mismatched eyes (one blue, the other acid green).

_(“I’ve brought you a gift—“)_

Talisa’s eyes were closed but somehow, she could see ahead. Far ahead. Twisting pits of bubbling acid, screaming bodies, shrieking monsters but no matter how she tried to wrench back from the sight, she couldn’t. So she opened her eyes. 

_(“What do we know about the De’Boons?”)_

It was still hard to breathe. Outlines of ruined buildings blurred passed her. Something sobbed in one of them. But now that Talisa’s eyes were open, she found it still was strange to see. To look around her. To…to….look down at her arm and realize there was a large purple eye looking back at her. Wired into her flesh with pulsing veins. She jerked back from her own limb. 

_(“Look for a young man with mismatched eyes.”)_

“Don’t forget where you are,” she muttered to herself. Talisa did not understand the words she heard in her own voice but this was the Far Realm. Madness. Best not to take anything as it is. As if her surroundings knew her thoughts, she heard her mother’s voice:

_(“Sweet Tali, courtesy is armor. When you control yourself, you can control what others perceive you to be. And that is a very, very important skill.”)_

But there were so many voices. So many memories and stories trying to stuff themselves in and crawl out her eye sockets. There were too many, ringing in her skull. Some didn’t even seem to be her own. 

_(“If you can fight, you can dance. I’m sure of it.”)_

The eye on her arm was burning and seeping pus and blood—

_(“Yes, my dear, you will marry this man and bear his children. But he does not own you.”)_

Talisa broke out in a cold sweat, her stomach heaved and the purple eye rooted into her arm bloomed with blackened spots of corruption. And then abruptly, her horse stopped. She was dumped onto the ground. The sorceress pushed herself up, swaying, struggling to keep from fainting. 

There was a breath of quiet in her mind and then a blaring drone of noise. It forced her to her knees. There were eyes on the ground and up in the air, staring at her, _into_ her. The great layers of the multiverse were like a film in the sky above. Like an open book with pages made of glossy webbing and taffy. They stretched and waved, absorbing light, wind, magic and creatures. 

The droning sound peeled open her mind and looked in. It asked nothing, though she could detect it was observing and making judgment. Sweat dripped from her brow, scattering on the dark stone ground. Her eyes _throbbed_ and began to bleed. _Do not panic. Keep control._

A place of fire and torment flashed through her brain and suddenly, she heard a voice growling something. The language was gnarled and dark. A devil flashed through her brain, and she knew somehow that this was a vision of Asmodeus, king of the devils, and ruler of the Nine Hells. 

_ ** (”BIND TO ME.”) ** _

Talisa suddenly realized that her eyes were still open (including the one on her arm) but she couldn’t see. She could only hear that language thunder in her mind. Everything around her was burning away, disappearing. Her thoughts were raw, not her own, invaded and intruding and ripped apart. Then placed back together. The devil king, godly stones, a halfling signing his name and a strange gem appearing in his hand. A woman with lungs full of sand. Full of sand. Full of—

When Talisa opened her eyes, she was on the floor of the ritual chamber. Aboken was kneeling at her side. “I’m checking the whites of your eyes for corruption, Lady Talisa.”

“Check the one on my arm,” Talisa muttered, automatically moving her hand to the spot. There was no eye anymore, but a mangled, bloody wound of some kind. 

“What do you remember?” One of the warlocks asked, peering at her eagerly. 

And so, as Aboken tended to her bleeding nose and ears, she told them.

Years later, she still had dreams about the experience. The Far Realm had left an imprint that Talisa tried to ignore. Like a little seed that she couldn’t help but think about once a day, watering it into a sapling in her mind. Talisa didn’t enjoy that thought, of the Far Realms taking _root_ in the back of her mind. But it was too late now. 

She didn’t have a Dream, capital D, until Leopold was born. Literally, right after his birth, she passed out and dreamed of that terrible feeling, pressing her down into the birthing bed, draining all the remaining blood from her. And she _felt_ more than heard the command, the feeling, the influence that Kri’zakth radiated. 

Like an impression of a shifting, rotating shadows and sandy darkness swirled around Leopold. As if his birth had altered whatever course was foreseen. Perhaps that made sense. If something happened to Gregor, after all, Leopold would be next in line. 

And then the shadows were swallowing and spinning around her and she heard that droning presence, that same _voice,_ deep in her gut:

** _ (”WAR TO ME.”) _ **

When she’d awoken, an entire day had passed and the maester feared the worst but Talisa found she actually felt _stronger_ than before. And, even better, she could sense that tiny flame in Leopold. The babe was a sorcerer, Talisa was sure of it. It would be, at least, ten or eleven years until it could be confirmed but she was so certain of it that she began to tweak her plans to the idea.

When Talisa had discussed the second vision of Kri’zakth Aboken was, understandably, stunned. And then excitement took over. Their lord had never spoken so directly to one of them before. 

“Perhaps, when the flow of the universe shifts, our lord will send you other visions. My lady, I cannot express how happy I am that you have joined with us. Your power has grown _significantly._ I will continue to research how we might bind Asmodeus. The devil-king will not be an easy task. He must not become aware of our true intentions for him.”

“If security is a concern, then perhaps we can make our plans in the Shadowfell.” 

Her keep among the black shadowlands had taken some months to complete. Talisa constructed it with magic to make it permanent over time and connected it via a portal. The key to it was actually a prism, a simple-looking bauble that, once the codeword was said, would instantly teleport her to the foyer of the keep. Talisa kept it on a simple chain around her neck, stowed beneath her gown.

And so no one at the Macwell Estate was the wiser as their lady lived far beyond the confines of Jildos. Her husband was away for long stretches of time and she stepped into command with practiced confidence. But at the same time, she began to communicate with drow who identified themselves as being followers of Kri’zakth. She established a personal spy network that stretched over the mainland and the Underdark.

The dreams from the consuming lord were few and far between. At least at first. But once Leopold turned fourteen, there was another Dream after he was sent out to sea. But strangely, it was a flash of a young man Talisa did not recognize. This boy had one blue eye and one bleeding red eye, haggard, and carrying a halberd. A skeletal canary and a raven perched on the walls of a ruin somewhere that Talisa did not recognize. 

_ ** (“THE DREAMING DEATH.”) ** _

Each dream was so intense that she would wake dizzy. But as her mind cleared, Talisa could feel that her _power_ was manifesting more intensely. It became easier to simply _control_ the weaker willed. But Gregor, while not as combative as Leopold, was still stubborn and willful. Bringing her elder son under her command had taken a great deal of time. Another one of Kri’zakth’s visions led her to the Dreaming Eye which assisted in taking control of, not just Gregor, but also Asmodeus. Anyone connected to him would be connected to the Eye. When she eventually would present it to the devil-king, he would have no way of knowing it had been touched by Kri’zakth.

When Talisa had made contact, she approached the devil-king fearlessly and presented the Dreaming Eye as a gift. It would connect souls to him, storing them for himself. Talisa had already placed about a hundred inside of it. 

While the devil-king examined it, seeming interested, he said, “And what do you want in exchange for such a bauble? It seems a necromancer of your caliber would have a lot of use for something like this.”

“A favor, my king,” Talisa answered, feeling the devil _peer_ into her. She held his gaze. “I commune with a Far Realm being called Kri’zakth. This is very difficult for a number of reasons. And I hope that perhaps, in the future, if I need magical aid, I might call upon you.”

His handsome features turned up, smirking a little as he openly examined her up and down. “Aren’t you a confident one?”

“I am sure you could detect if I were lying, my king,” Talisa answered, voice measured and even. “The ancient lord Kri’zakth bestowed a vision upon me that led me to his Dreaming Eye. I have no interest in giving my soul to you but I respect your great power, as I am merely mortal. This Eye can store thousands of souls and it will connect you to them. In exchange, when the time comes for me to commune with our lord Kri’zakth again, I would respectfully ask for your assistance. Just that one time, as a show of power, no more than that.”

Again, Talisa could _feel_ Asmodeus staring into her. But nothing she had said was a lie (technically). 

And so, after some thought, the devil-king agreed. Amused and curious about, what he assumed, were petty human cultist affairs. A sideshow. And in return, he got an object that would let him use thousands of souls and easily torment them, if he wished. Mortals were so silly sometimes. 

Talisa took her leave afterwards. And that night had another vision, feeling great Kri’zakth’s acknowledgement. And when she awoke, her magic was expanded. And she could now scry in on the King of the Nine Hells. Truly incredible, as an experience. 

At present, Talisa Macwell was sipping wine, studying a fresh page of her private journal. Oh, if only Leopold had come with them. Gregor couldn’t speak so it was always so quiet here. He seemed back to normal after suffering whatever had happened to him but Talisa no longer wanted to leave him alone when he guarded something. The poor thing still cried out and wept in his sleep. 

Speaking of guards, she heard the shuffle of feet and armor before the knock came to her door. One of her servants announced herself before she cracked open Talisa's door. “My lady, a scout has arrived who says they located your prisoners in the Ninth Hell.”

Instantly, Talisa hurried downstairs to where the scout, a bearded devil, was waiting in the foyer. “You found Leopold?”

“Yes, my lady, in the Nine Hells. What do you want us to do with him and the other two?” The devil squinted at the human. He had wicked looking swords and studded metal armor, rusted with blood on the spiked shoulders.

“Catch them and take them to Kri'zakth. Keep them alive until I come for them.”

The captain seemed to fight a smirk. “Am I take that to mean you're leavin ‘em with us, my lady?”

Talisa sighed at him and nodded. “Yes. Their choices are made. Take them to Kri'zakth and do as you will with them. But again, keep them alive until I come for them. Make _sure_ they do not slip away again.”

It was impossible to tell night from day in the horrorscape of wherever they were in the Ninth Hell. The bound up, writhing bodies were endless, the purple shadows and blackened, slimy webs stretched for miles in every direction.

So when Dagna spotted a large, looming shadow in the near distance, she put out her hand to stop the other two. “That shadow looks more solid. Might be a building or just a particularly thick clump of bodies.” She used her hand to point to the northeast of their position. 

“Let’s swing northwest then,” Cam murmured, narrowing his eyes at the shadow. He checked around him reflexively, scanning the horizon. 

But as the three of them approached it wasn’t a building at all. It was a mighty, dead tree. Its girth was gargantuan. It would take five hundred sets of hands just to encircle the trunk. But there were no leaves and the bark was battered, stripped bare in some places. Massive roots uncoiled like pythons around the base of the dead tree. Mist clung to them like silk. 

There was no real earth for the tree to anchor itself in, though. It appeared to be growing atop a massive pit in the rock. The sight of the open air under the many roots gave all of them a twinge of unease. Everything around the tree was still velvet dark. There was no sign of spiders here, though some of the branches had writhing bundles hung on them like holiday garland on a lord’s chandelier. 

“Oh, I hate every part of this,” Cam muttered as they continued their slow trek.

Boone brought up the rear, eyes constantly moving around them. “There are no bodies down here, just up in the branches—“

Cam and Dagna whirled around as Boone was suddenly whipped up into the air and tossed by one of the massive roots. The paladin slammed into the trunk of the huge tree. 

“Mother_fuck!”_ Dagna yelled and the two were off, sprinting over the uneven stone. She threw herself to one side when another root tried to swipe her. A whipping root as big around as a horse bashed at Cam but the sorcerer threw up his shield. It barely held and they both kept running. 

Boone was struggling to stand, swaying and rattled. Her nose was bleeding and her whole body hurt. 

“This human looks lost.” The voice was raspy, growling, as a barbazu, a bearded devil, appeared before her. Immediately recognizable by their beard-like tendrils, Boone had seen drawings of them at the Temple. It seemed a fairly close approximation. His skin was thick, muscled and tinted purple. The barbazu's hair was summer green but the tendrils on his face were a sickly bright shade of the same color. The devil had a hand on his sword and was holding up a torch. “Most of you don’t walk around.”

“Boone!” Cam came sprinting up.

“And here are the other two, yeah?” The barbazu said, looking sidelong at the bard and sorcerer as they slowed. “There’s a delicious bounty up for you three.”

“Who the fuck are you?” Dagna demanded. 

“Doesn’t matter. No one likes it when the meat gets away!” The devil threw the torch between the roots and it fell into the pit below. 

“Oh fuck you—“ Dagna started but another root whipped up and tried to smash into her. 

Cam rushed the devil, driving his sword into his gut and _inflicting_ upon him. At the same time, Boone seemed to regain her balance and slashed at the devil’s back. Holy fire ripped up the seam of his spine while the necrotic _ate_ into his belly. 

And then orange light flared beneath them, under the roots of the tree. 

Boone recoiled, looking down.

“Unfortunate for you, lovely.” The bearded devil smirked and all the roots of the tree flipped up.

Boone and Cam fell, plummeting into the dark. They both heard Dagna cursing, screaming something and then she was thrown in after them. The sorcerer grabbed onto Boone, yanking her into him and protecting her head when they shattered the surface of some kind of black, oily water. 

Instantly, barbazu were on them, fishing them out of the water and dragging them both to a sort of boardwalk built into stone deep beneath the massive tree. Cam flipped around and came up swinging, slashing the nearest devil. Boone roared, scrambling up, grappling with another. 

Dagna was swarmed by five devils. She threw out _Shatter_ and blasted them back before another group threw a weighted net over her. The bard fought, firing her handbow with abandon into the group of barbazu before her. She could see Cam and Boone, fighting. She clenched her fist and cast _Dimension Door,_ warping over to the other two. Dagna jabbed her rapier into the devil clawing at Boone like a flashing needle. 

Six more barbazu appeared with crossbows. Another four circled with swords and hammers.

"Dag, get Boone out—!“ And then two bolts struck Cam in the chest. The sorcerer staggered and three devils jumped on him, bashing Cam into the ground, crushing the crossbow bolts deeper into his chest.

“No, no, no!” Boone bellowed, charging forward. Two more crossbow bolts hit her, one in the thigh and one to the ribs and then an oozing longbow arrow punched through the plate and into her spine. 

“Fuck! No! Fucking stop! I’ll kill you!” Dagna dodged an axe, sprinting up on the devils scuffling with Cam. She smashed herself into one, stabbing with her sword. But Cam was hauled up, blood drenching the front of his gear. He looked pale, faint and there was blood on his lips. He was struggling to breathe. 

“Cam!” Dagna screamed it when he was tossed to another barbazu like a sack of grain. She whirled, slashing at the next devil and saw Boone with four crossbow bolts and an acid arrow sticking out of her like flagposts. 

The paladin was still fighting, slashing with her sword. The pain was just a buzzing in the back of her brain now. Boone couldn't even feel it. It seemed surreal when Dagna raced up, bashing into another devil near her. But then one was popping up behind the bard. Boone opened her mouth to yell: “DAGNA!”

But it was too late. The wicked, curved dagger stabbed down into her back like a furious hornet and the bard seized. Boone heard more than felt two more arrows burst through her chestplate. Each delivered a thunderous _shock_ that sent her reeling back onto the ground. The arrow in her back snapped, jolting the half still inside of her and pain seared down every nerve ending. For a moment, she couldn't see, glacier blue eyes glassy and bloodshot. 

“Don’t worry, human,” said the barbazu captain, smirking. “We don’t get to kill you. We’ll have you back up soon enough.” He winked and punched the teenager in the face. 

Everything went dark.

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	25. Pact of Memory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Music: Light Shall Never Fade: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=W_XUirgO1kg&list=PLQuOKHNudkme-P2XykOQOMLhdu_WjLR7A&index=45
> 
> _”She has peeled back the layers of your mind, invaded your thoughts, your privacy, your sense of self. She loved you, once, but now you are a tool to her. Do you understand this?”_  
\------------------------------

In Leopold’s experience sailing with the Navy, he had learned much about the different kinds of sailors out on the water. As a teenager, he and some fresh recruits from the Academy (two years his senior), were excited and a little nervous. With good reason. The seas were dangerous, full of pirates and enemies. Not to mention the monsters that were said to roam the deep waters of the world. 

Pirates seemed to be made up of all classes of people. If someone seeking adventure thought military sailing was too structured, they might go for a pirate ship instead (like Cam had briefly considered). But typically, as the veteran sailors would tell them, pirates were usually made out of poverty and misery. Desperation. Which meant killing for the means to survive. Dressing it in the glamour of the raucous pirate allowed them to cope with such a chaotic lifestyle. Some were better than others. But there were heartless pirates too that were basically nothing more than slavers. 

Traders also had a blend of people among their decks. Some were pirates trying to go straight, mercenaries and merchants, navy veterans and the restless. And some seemed a little more daring than others and might be prone to a bit of theft if no one was around to catch them. 

So Cam felt like he was able to integrate with the rough and tumble crew fairly well. But, they were still a trading vessel, albiet a heavily armed one. And when a crew is at least half-inclined towards occasional piracy, they must be ready to answer when full-time pirates come knocking. 

And there was no mistake, the _Humming Depths_ rowed loud. North and east, circling the jungle and sandy palm beaches on the mainland. It was a week of sailing around the northernmost landmass to get to Etherforge on the western side. 

Leopold had visited the magnificent city but Cam did not quite dare to show his face, although the city was extraordinarily beautiful in its blend of metal and magic. Instead, he stayed on the ship, learning from Ollier and generally keeping himself busy. Only once, in the late evening, did he go out and buy some sailing gear so he wouldn’t stick out among the crew. His once-neat appearance was flicked away, dismissed and unneeded. Cam let his stubble grow in and pulled his hair into a shaggy tail. 

Etherforge was their first major stop after Jildos. Then would be Marisport. Cam was contemplating getting off there to try and find his brother, perhaps. Or he could continue with the ship to Ebreosea. He couldn’t be entirely certain that Gregor would be happy to see him, after all, considering their last conversation. But his brother was more important than pride. Unless Gregor tried to send him home. Leopold was not too keen on that idea. He could only imagine how furious his mother was going to be. 

Cam put it from his mind. It was another couple weeks of sailing before he had to make that decision. Right now, he needed to focus on blending in, gathering information and making himself useful. He even got to show off a little fire when a pirate ship started following them a little too closely. He set their black sails alight, much to the crew’s amusement.

That night, Cam plotted the constellations. By morning, they should be rounding the straight shot west, following the northern coast. There were tiny lights in the distance and thick cloud cover as the _Depths_ climbed the waves and flew over the foam of the monolithic pits of the sea. 

The next morning, the bells were ringing. Cam started awake in his bunk to fellow sailors, Chipper and Jon the Fish, grumbling. Hati, a half-orc, called, "All hands, chucklefucks!" before she disappeared to the top deck.

“What the fuck?” grumbled Jon the Fish. He was the best swimmer among the crew, grizzled by age and survival, probably a former pirate, heavily tattooed and brown as leather.

There was scrambling above them on the deck. Chipper got up. He was older than Cam by at least a dozen years and looked more than weathered for it. “That’s the warning bells. Let’s go. Mayhap there’s a storm.”

“Fucking hell,” Jon the Fish swore, turning to glare at Cam. “Get up, harpie. That’s the call bell.”

“My hair is better kept than a harpie, at least.” Cam was up, tying his shaggy black hair in a tail as they headed up to the deck. They passed around a cigarette and Jon the Fish drank right from an urn of mulled wine.

But on deck, they all slowed, staring at the massive clouds gathering to their immediate south on the mainland and rolling over the whole stretch of sea before them. At this coordinate, the Great Chain should practically be in sight. The gargantuan, metal links branching out of a massive slab of granite and tethered somewhere in the sky. No one had ever reached the end of it or discerned its purpose but it was so massive that one could easily see it from nearby ships. But this morning was not the case. Over the mainland and rolling down the coast was a haze of smoke, black and heavy. 

Captain Vrosstran was at the helm, peering into the darkness, mouth set in a deep frown. “Take the sails in and pull out the oars. Smells like a battle. We’ll veer northerly. But not too far, we don’t want to run into the Isle of Storms.” His First Mate, a male goliath, thundered off to give orders. 

The _Humming Depths_ rolled through another wall of smoke and soot, blotting out the clear morning sky. There were no birds, even as they cleared the blackness. But Cam gripped the railing hard. 

There were ten ships flying Jildosi flags. Ten ships that were all blazing, flames licking up their masts. Along the coast and farther inland, a scar of fires was roasting the nearby forests. 

“Who’s Jildos playin war with now?” Chipper asked, frowning as he scanned the sea ahead. Debris was starting to float their way on the currents.

“Cin Amon,” Cam muttered and pointed when he saw one of their flags. The burning Jildosi ships were being boarded. The din of fighting and screams rattled over the sea. No doubt there were fresh-faced teenagers among them, getting their first and last taste of battle, probably.

“Man off starboard deck!” One of the lookouts howled. It seemed loud somehow, despite the screams of dying sailors and burning forests. 

“Bring him up!” The captain ordered, turning away from the carnage to go to the other side of his ship while the sailors scurried around and threw a rope down, pulling up a ragged and water-logged half-elf wearing the Circle City’s white on gold. He cringed back from them.

“No fear from us, boy. We’re just traders. We don’t care whose side you’re on. What’s your name, lad?”

“Roothen,” the boy managed.

“What happened?” Vrosstran asked him.

The boy, who might have been nineteen, pulled off his sword and belt, breathing raggedly. “There’s a battle.”

“We saw. Between who?” The captain asked him, gesturing to the ship’s cleric as the man brought forward a blanket, towels and some fresh water.

The boy drank furiously before he breathed again. “Jildos and Cin Amon.”

“Eh, yeah, mercenary city versus the warmonger city,” Chipper muttered.

But Cam felt his gut seize, his heart skipped. _This was the battle._

“Those are Cin Amon’s colors, yeah?” The Captain was examining the boy’s sword.

“Yeah,” Roothen answered, muted and tired. “We won but two of our ships went down too and the current pulled me out to sea. We sunk all of theirs. The higher ups found out that Jildos sent one of their princes with more men.” He gestured weakly to the burning ships.

“One of the Macwells?” The Captain asked, eyebrows shooting up.

Roothen shrugged. “I guess so. The line fell near the Junction. Lord Macwell was taken prisoner. He’ll be dead by now.”

It took every fiber of control to mask his expression when Cam processed those words. Everything seemed to grey out around him, staring into the bellowing fires.

“Shit,” the trader captain announced. “Well, that’s probably gonna change some things. I was just in Jildos. Hadn’t heard shit about it.”

The boy shakily got to his feet. “The commanders all know the Macwell’s reputation, I guess. They weren’t sure which son it would be. But I guess the younger one has been missing for over a fortnight.”

_That_ seemed to give the captain a start. “What! So _both_ of them are gone?” 

Roothen shrugged again. “I guess so. I didn’t see it. Just heard about it. They took Gregor Macwell prisoner. He’s the commander so.” Roothen grimaced and traced the stump of his neck with his thumb.

“Royals and all their damn problems,” Jon the Fish grumbled, rolling his eyes.

“They ain’t royals,” Chipper said, crossing his arms. “Though they might as well be, I guess.”

“You’re from Jildos, right?” Hati said, nudging Cam in the shoulder with her elbow. 

The sorcerer shook himself and took a breath. His fingers had pins and needles running through them. “Yeah—and yeah, pretty much. Council members are treated like royals though they technically aren’t. Rich assholes being rich assholes.”

“That’s the fuckin truth,” Chipper agreed quietly, pulling out another homerolled cigarette and lighting it. 

“You won’t be able to dock at Marisport,” Roothen continued. “It’s all on fire. It’ll be locked down by the time you get there.”

_Gregor is dead._ Cam had to steady himself again, like the world was falling out of focus. His lungs wanted to seize, his stomach hurt. _Gregor is dead. Father sent him to his fucking death._

“You understand that if I can’t dock at Marisport, the closest you’re getting to a proper dock is Eberosea, lad? I mean, unless you wanna swim to shore and get back to your people?”

The boy looked out to sea and then back to Captain Vrosstan. “…I can sail if you take me with you?”

“Ah yeah, you’re a sailor, aren’t you? Good lad. Welcome aboard.”

Cam was no longer listening. He went back to the other railing, watching the coils of black smoke obscure the entire coast. _I will never go back. Ever. Fuck them and fuck Jildos._

Thankfully, Cam was sent to the oars for the day. He didn’t have to talk to anyone when he was on oars. He could just row, wrapping his hands in rags. It let him bring everything down, simmering in to just focusing on doing strong, deep pulls with the other rowers so he wouldn’t focus on Gregor. _Why did you have to listen to him, Gregor? Fucking idiot._

It wasn’t until he took a turn up in the crow’s nest that evening, as the smoke was now fading into the distance, that he silently wept. 

Gregor was dreaming. 

He hadn’t realized it until just this moment, standing on bare, black stone in the middle of an empty wasteland. The sky was bright orange-red, casting the plain of dark rock in faint, tawny light. There were no living creatures around him. The flat rock stretched before him for thousands of miles, far off to the horizon, unable to make out anything at all. 

_(“Dreaming is another form of living. Sleeping is another bit of death. If gods lie dreaming of the material plane, what evidence is there that they draw breath?”)_

Gregor slowly turned around. Behind him was not the expansive field of black rock but a forest of dead trees. Gregor felt himself pulled forward, unable to help himself. Dread was sinking in, heavy and dark, as he began to hear the whispers among the rotting bark:

_(“No, Lisan, Trenton was totally destroyed. There’s literally nothing left.”)_

He felt the cold bite of metal striking into the back of his neck and shuddered, fighting the reflexive nausea that tried to sweep over him. Gregor palmed at his throat, feeling the scarred and molted flesh at the base of his neck. It made the dread deepen, harder to breathe. 

_(“My friend here, ha, she’s a little too much like you. And, uh, she can’t trade her life but…can I trade mine to rid her of the evil she carries?”)_

The sky above was bloody-red and the stars were burning shards of silver but he kept moving into the trees. The dirt was black and matted with red. 

_(“This is the end, Lord Macwell. But do not worry. I imagine you’ll be waking again soon enough. Your mother has arranged for us to return your body to her very promptly.”)_

Gregor found a small clearing in the trees. He saw himself, after the battle, beaten and bloody, taken by Cin Amon officers. He had only really remembered the moment of death. Not the minutes before. That had all been a haze. 

_(“You seem surprised by that, Lord Macwell.”)_

The shadow of himself was, indeed, surprised by that. The shades of the officers seemed to share a round of chuckles at Gregor’s expense but when they moved to behead him, Gregor saw another shade watching from behind. 

This one was different. This shadow was tall and wore a white, winged half-mask that had no eye holes where they should have been. But the rest of the figure was mist and darkness, wrapped in a silken black cloak. The other shades turned to sand and this tall one came forward, gliding over the matted, red earth. The voice Gregor heard then was echoing, full of whispers and shadows:

_”We have not met. Yet I know you. Through all the connecting memories of those who love you, I know you. By the memories of those who hate you, I know you. And the memories of those to whom, you were only a face in the crowd, I know you. To guard a young aspect of Jazirian, to nurture the good in her.”_

A few feet away, mist and shadows flooded up from the rotted earth, lovely Lady Devonshire, Boone, in the gown she’d worn at dinner that night so long ago. The stark dragon pendant seemed to wink at him in the dusky light.

_”To help another, a young man, find his place.”_

The sandy form of Cyrus Sabal whisked together next to this tall creature. His mismatched eyes were glowing and his halberd was shining like a prism. 

_”You know my messenger.”_

A swirl of sand coalesced beside the masked figure. The name came to him in an instant. “Thioni.”

And just like that, Thioni seemed to step out of her sand figure, shaking dark dust from her brown mop of hair. Her sightless eyes were glowing. “Your mother watched you so closely that I had to step away from you. I am sorry for the pain it caused you.”

Gregor raised his eyes to the masked figure. “Are you the Lady of the Dead?”

The tall figure, who Gregor now realized must be the Raven Queen, bowed to him. _”My power is nearly spent and there is still much to do. The one who bore you is always listening. Her hold on your soul remains strong. My messenger is one who, despite the millions of souls the hungry god has trapped, is not connected to the memories of any of them. Thus, she is a ghost to the Dreaming Eye. But not to detection, entirely.”_

Gregor rubbed his forehead, checking his surroundings again. “What do we do from here? I only know that Leopold is gone. I don’t know where they are. My mother is still watching me.” 

_”She has peeled back the layers of your mind, invaded your thoughts, your privacy, your sense of self. She loved you once, but now you are a tool to her. Do you understand this?”_

Gregor winced at the ground, following a centipede with his eyes before he closed them and nodded. “Yes. I do. But I don’t know if I can kill her in the state I’m in. The magic she has is…incredible.”

_”No. You cannot. But there are other steps you might take. Other pacts you might make, if you make them with me. For though my power is nearly spent, I can bestow the tool you will need. Soon, your mother will return to the material plane. You must go with her, still playing the part of her thrall. When you see your brother again, you’ll know that it is time. ”_

Gregor felt a wave of dizziness come over him. He put a hand to his chest as it registered. _Leo is alive. Thank fuck for that._ “Where is he?”

_”He will return to the material plane soon. The pieces are now in place. But for the moment, like many others, he is suffering.”_

Gregor took a deep breath and nodded to the specter. “All right. Let’s make this pact.”

Boone came around, dazed and groggy. A devil tossed a small vial in a bucket and smirked at her. “Morning, human.”

Boone stiffened, realizing that her gear was gone. The rags of a prisoner had replaced her armor and the bite of a chain kept her throat leashed to the chair. Her hands were locked down with runed cuffs, no doubt to restrain her from using magic. She bared her teeth. “Where are my friends!”

“Don’t worry. We got each of ‘em a potion. The Lady doesn’t want you dead.”

Boone bristled, twisting against the cuffs and the armrest. “Is she on her way?”

“Eventually.” The devil winked. “But for now, you get to stay here with us. She lets us break some of the livelier ones sometimes.”

Boone surged against the chains coiled around her chest and throat, spitting and growling. 

“Oh, well, ain’t you a feisty girl!” The devil picked up a hammer and slammed it into Boone’s sword hand. 

Boone shouted, trying to recoil away. Her hand instantly throbbed, the middle knuckle was definitely crushed and the skin was turning purple and black.

“Yeah, that’s how it’s going to be, human,” the devil told her, putting his hands on his hips. “You just keep quiet now, eh?” He brought the hammer down on her left hand. 

Boone felt the blunted head smash her first two fingers into the armrest. The nails split and blood spurted from them. The girl groaned, trying to smother it as much as she could, eyes flashing with rage. The pain was sharp, throbbing, burning the nerves. 

“You feisty ones calm right down when I give you a dose of that, eh? Best part is, even if you die, we can bring you right back with potions. You want to see? Lady Macwell got us a very good supply chain from the Underdark.”

Boone was sweating now, still furious and she spit at the devil.

That seemed to amuse him. “Need a demonstration, eh?” 

He brought the hammer down on her face. Again and again, smashing in her lovely eyes and bludgeoning her skull to mush. Or at least, that was how it felt.

Boone couldn’t remember much of it. Just horrific pain. And then waking up again with the devil shaking another little vial at her. “See. We have _so_ many of these.”

“What do you wanna know so bad!” Boone spit.

He snorted. “Know? I aint tryin to know anything. You’re just here on our time, human.” The devil slid the tip of his knife along her scarred throat. “Looks like you’ve had fun already. Should we open it up again for you?”

“Fuck _you,”_ Boone managed, teeth gritted, eyes flashing in fury. 

A flick of silver, and he stabbed her in the left eye. That horrible feeling of rigid, cold metal inside of her skull, unable to jerk back or close her eye or protect it. The devil simply left it there, snickering. He pulled a chair up to her and sat down before her, leaning on his elbow to look into her face. “Oh yes, big bitch like you must be quite accustomed to others getting out of her way. God-touched, eh?” The devil nodded towards the mark on her face.

Blood was streaked over it from her ruined eye, matting her black hair to her skin. The pain was horrendous and Boone was only now just getting her breathing under some semblance of control.

“You want to talk about something, though? All right. Let’s talk about how Sabal reversed his undeath, yeah? The Lady seems _very_ interested in that.”

“Fuck her. I’m not telling you shit!”

The devil chuckled. “That’s fine. Believe me. That’s just fine by me. The asking is the boring part anyway.”  
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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I have made some adjustments to this as I correct more details but there are certain things that I have run with and now can't really extract it.
> 
> The idea of Boone becoming some sort of celestial was my theory on why she turned blue during their encounter with Jazirian inside the Cerise Sanctuary. But it turned out, in game, that there was no actual reason for her being blue. When she and Cyrus are both restored in S06, the blueness just goes away. But since that's what I planned around through several chapters, that's what I'm sticking with. 
> 
> Gregor's role (being alive) was another major detail that I shifted. Along with Cyrus and Kallas meeting in the Shadowfell. And the difference in Lauren's ending to S05 vs Sean's opening to S06. (I combined them.)
> 
> Just want to emphasize that this is just my noodling with the story bc podcasting and writing are different mediums for storytelling. This isn't trying to necessarily follow the podcast event-by-event.


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